Praying For Our Family

Learning to Pray: How We Find Heaven on Earth
by Wayne Muller

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When I lead retreats, I begin by asking those present to think of someone dear to them. I ask them to recall a particular person whose loving kindness startled them awake, whose gift inspired them to be strong or faithful, who offered bread when they were hungry, water when they were parched with thirst.

"I want to bring my grandfather into the circle," explains a young pediatrician. "He was always kind to me, never harsh. Whenever I walk into the room of a child in my care, I remember his gentle manner, and I feel him there with me."

A woman speaks up. "I would like to invite my aunt," she says. "I had pneumonia when I was a little girl, and I remember my aunt sitting by my bed for hours, just sitting there, singing to me, holding my hand. She could not heal my sickness, but her presence made me feel strong and safe. I would like to feel her by my side again." She is quiet, a tear slowly spills onto her cheek.

A parent recalls when his daughter was about six. He had been working hard, late hours, coming home depleted and troubled by the weight of working and raising a family. "One night I collapsed in a chair, and could barely speak. I was bone tired. My daughter climbed up on my lap, and stroked my head, and said, 'I love you, Daddy.' I can never forget the touch of her fingers in my hair, those few simple words. She changed my mood in an instant, I felt grateful and at peace." He paused, and added, "I would like to bring my daughter into the circle."

And so it goes, people inviting teachers, lovers, friends who held or loved them into the circle. Healing, like communion, is shared, sacred bread passed around life's altar from hand to hand, generation to generation. When we pray, we invite all these into the quiet sanctuary of "our" prayer.

The gift of prayer holds a hidden paradox; when we pray alone, centered and still, we begin to feel less lonely. We taste the quiet companionship of God, and recall deep connections that nourish and sustain us.

I belong to a circle of people who meet a few times each year to exchange stories from our journeys, to share our challenges and blessings. One year, Hafsat, a young member of our group, was absent. She had been detained in her home country in Africa. No one knew when, or if, she would be allowed to leave. The previous government had killed her mother, and her father had died a political prisoner. We did not know what would happen to her, and we were afraid.

It was the night of her twenty-fifth birthday. She had always been a light in our circle, and in her sudden absence we ached from the missing of her company. While some of us were doing what little we could through connections at the State Department, we were essentially powerless, troubled and uncertain, not knowing what to do or say. For the most part, we could only wait.

Late in the evening, on the way to our respective rooms, several of us found ourselves spontaneously forming a circle, on a path under the stars. As we held one another, we prayed aloud for her safe return. Amshatar, one of our circle, taught us an old African song that Hafsat's mother sang to her when she was small. It had always made Hafsat feel at peace in her mother's love.

And so, in a circle on a path in the Michigan woods, a small group of devoted friends prayed and sang a song that we knew, somehow, was the right song:

One person
is not a good thing.
One person
is certainly not
a good thing.
O Lord,
please do not make me
one person.

On the night of her twenty-fifth birthday, we sang to Hafsat under the cool brilliance of the night sky, so that wherever she was, she would not feel like one person, not alone, not this night.

Copyright © 2003 by Wayne Muller.

About the Author

Wayne Muller is an ordained minister and therapist and founder of Bread for the Journey, an innovative organization serving families in need. A graduate of Harvard Divinity School, he is Senior Scholar at the Fetzer Institute and a Fellow of the Institute of Noetic Sciences. He also runs the Institute for Engaged Spirituality and gives lectures and retreats nationwide. He is the author of Legacy of the Heart, a New York Times bestseller, and How, Then, Shall We Live? He lives with his family in northern California.