When we are lying on our bed of affliction – no matter what form or shape it may take, we are summoned to rise.
We rise above diagnoses and despair to be cleansed in the healing pool of Bethesda – stirred by the energy of a time and space that knows no disease.
We rise beyond hatred and animosity to the healing balm of Gilead where our souls know that they and God are one.
We rise past appearances of lack and limitation to abundance spilling from cups running over – to sit at tables spread before our enemies.
We rise over doubt, disappointment and depression to the Christ in us, where prayers are answered before they are even asked.
We expect something extraordinary, but acknowledging the power of Spirit is as commonplace as breathing.
Each breath we take is filled with the endless possibilities of the universe.
Each breath we take is the co-creative expression of God breathing us as divine energy.
Each breath we take liberates us from the fear that our good comes from someone and something other than God. But God loves us throughout eternity. We don’t have to ask for love. Love is not separate or apart from who we are. We cannot separate ourselves from the source of absolute good that loves us without needing anything in return and turns our worries into victories.
Dad came home with what the doctors called cancer and his prognosis was dim. They delivered his bed of affliction along with tanks containing his last gasps of air. But we called the devil a liar. Prayers lined the walls of my parents’ apartment, and filled their shoes, and anointed every crack and crevice, and every inch and foot, and every cell and molecule of their being until nothing was no more. But eventually, the medical team removed the hospital bed, and then the accompanying medical table.
Then they analyzed Dad’s blood again, and said everything was well.
Months ago he walked into a season of deep rivers, where the angels stirred. If we are already home, what else is there to do but gently line our hearts, souls and bodies with prayers.
It is not enough to simply look into cupped hands and tell God what you want.
These are the days of prayers who move beyond the confines of asking and know the grace of good that is present everywhere. We have to smooth out the edges of resentment against anyone or anything and trust that we are well.
We are well in the Father because the Father is well in us.
These are the days that wear circles of prayers in the wee hours of happy days that wash our sins away and know no one and nothing but favor.
Come Winifred. Come Myrtle. Come Hicey. Come Alma. Come Lynette. Come Bernadette. Come Fern. Come Latanya. Come Jerome. Come Marlon. Come Paulette. Come Sonya. Come Robert. Come Sandy. Come Angie. Come Elizabeth, Come Nan. Come Cecilia. Come saints, circle round prayers as they circle round you and rise from every lie that says you can’t when you can, and every weapon that lifts to deny you because it can never prosper, and every soul that sits at the edge of fear and refuses to wait no more, and rise from your mats.
These are the prayers that swing low to remove your affliction.
Come, see how they walk above space, and beyond air.
Everything that we need to begin again is right in our midst.
from Prayers Whose Feet Do Not Touch the Ground
Copyright 2016, by Cecilia B. Loving