Every day I pause to pray for marriages. Sometimes it is a collective hope, but more often I think of individual couples, or single people who are looking toward a sweet relationship, either on this earth or in heaven. At times it takes the form of deep breathing, as I picture them slowing down from a hectic
pace to receive blessings. I sing a song with them in my heart, or ask for God to comfort them in their uncertainty. In my mind I picture them laughing, or holding hands, or simply looking deeply into each other's eyes. If I have ever had an occasion to see them dance, I call up the image.
If I have a photograph of them from a Christmas card I look at it tenderly. If a couple is newly engaged, I pray. If they recently had a baby,
I pray. If they have suffered a loss, I pray.
For some who are struggling that I have known in better years I hold the memory of their love when they have all but forgotten. There are marriages that I pray for earnestly that are nearly lifeless. Affection has shriveled up like last week's celery, and there seems to be little more than children and a common address to keep them loosely tethered. Their interaction is as hard as an
avocado stone. But I pray anyway.
God does not seem to be stumped by death. Stories like Lazarus and Jairus's daughter remind me that He who gives life can give it again. When I plunk a stalk of withered celery in a jar of water, it perks up beautifully. If I pierce a brown avocado seed with toothpicks and suspend it in water, green life emerges.
This week I
held an avocado seed and old celery in my hands and I prayed. Hard.
The book Praying for Strangers is one that has refueled my trust in prayer. The author prayed for a different stranger every day for a year. The stories of how she participated in blessing others are the real deal.
I have chosen to pray for people I
know, and to do it over and over again. And if you ask, I will pray for you.
