Prayer for a Country Called War

Words for when there are no words

When I don’t know what to do, I write prayers. Because I believe in Logos, the word. Because the act of writing becomes an extension of my body, of my heart. But words have been hard to come by this week. I’m sure you, too, are overwhelmed with grief and horror at the news, at the way it keeps on mercilessly unfolding like a never-ending bolt of fabric woven out of misery. May God have mercy on us.

My hands feel so empty of offering, but my heart is so full of grief and despair. All I can do is string these syllables together and keep believing that we can love each other from afar, that our love might be made tangible, that peace may come. (If you would like to use this prayer as part of a service or meeting, please feel free to—no need to ask. I’d be buoyed and honored to be a small part of your community.)

“Prayer for a Country Called War”

Every time you kiss your children,

Remember those who have lost theirs.

Every time you take a sip of water,

Remember those who have no food, no drink.

Every time you call your parents,

Remember those who have no way of knowing if their loved ones are alive or dead.

Every time you flick on a light switch,

Remember those who have no power.

Every time you look up to a sunny or cloudy sky,

Remember those for whom it rains only missiles.

Every time you lie down for a peaceful sleep,

Remember those for whom life is only a long, treacherous night,

For whom safety is an unreachable mirage.

Every time you write out your address,

Remember those who live in a country called War.

There is no way to wrap our arms all the way around the globe.

But let us try.

Let us try.

Amen.

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Usually on Fridays, I send you a short list of hopeful things. But today, this is all I’ve got, a little flint and steel of love and compassion, hoping that together we can create a spark.

With love, in grief,
Cameron