Good morning…
Prayerfully seeking words of wisdom to read aloud to our Monthly Spiritual Direction group, I sensed the book from which I was to read, then I opened it to the only dog-eared page in my pristine “extra” copy. Sitting outside, bundled in jackets, blankets, and face to face connection, we pondered this powerful story.
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Excerpt from Sue Monk Kidd’s When the Heart Waits – pages 141-142
One afternoon as the children watched television and I folded laundry, we heard a terrible thud against the patio door. I turned in time to see blue wings falling to the ground. A bird had flown into the glass.
None of us said a word. We looked at one another and crept to the door. The children followed me outside. I half-expected the bird to be dead, but she wasn’t. She was stunned and her right wing was a little lopsided, but it didn’t look broken – bruised, maybe.
A voice came from behind me, “Why doesn’t it fly off, Mama?”
“She’s hurt,” I said. She just needs to be still.”
We watched her. We watched her stillness. Finally the children wandered back to the television, satisfied that nothing was going to “happen” for a while. But I couldn’t leave her.
I sat beside her, unable to resist feeling that we shared something, the two of us. The wounds and brokenness of life. Crumpled wings. A collision with something harsh and real. I felt like crying for her. For myself. For every broken thing in our world.
That moment taught me that while the postures of stillness within the cocoon are frequently an individual experience, we also need to share our stillness. The bird taught me anew that we’re all in this together, that we need to sit in one another’s stillness and take up corporate postures of prayer. How wonderful it is when we can be honest and free enough to say to one another, “I need you to wait with me,” or “Would you like me to wait with you?”
I studied the bird, deeply impressed that she seemed to know instinctively that in stillness is healing. I had been learning that too, learning that stillness can be the prayer of transforms us. How much more concentrated our stillness becomes, though, when it’s shared.
The door opened again. “Is she finishing being still yet?” Ann asked.
“No, not yet,” I said, knowing that I was talking as much about myself as the bird. We went on waiting together. Twenty minutes. Thirty. Fifty.
Finally she was finished being still. She cocked her head to one side, lifted her wings, and flew. The sight of her flying made me catch my breath. From the corner of my eye I saw her shadow move along the ground and cross over me. Grace is everywhere, I thought. Then I picked myself up and went back to folding laundry.
After that day, when I needed someone to pray with me I called on one of my friends and simply asked if she would come and wait with me. Sometimes we sat together without saying a word. Even then, however, our hearts were focused and attentive and beating with love. We were listening as best we could to the prayer the Spirit prays within us. We were trusting together, hoping in high shadows and the flight of wings.
I have regrets in my life, but waiting with that wounded bird isn’t one of them. I learned her stillness and her flight. She taught me prayer.
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It is tough to tolerate waiting, prolonged stillness, alone. It’s even harder to be transformed by sacred silence, together.
They went to a place called Gethsemane, and Jesus said to his disciples, “Sit here while I pray.” He took Peter, James and John along with him, and he began to be deeply distressed and troubled. “My soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death,” he said to them. “Stay here and keep watch.”
Going a little farther, he fell to the ground and prayed that if possible the hour might pass from him. “Abba, Father,” he said, “everything is possible for you. Take this cup from me. Yet not what I will, but what you will.” (Mark 14:32-36, NIV).
If Jesus could ask his friends to wait with him as he endured overwhelming sorrow, might we learn to invite our friends to sit with us in prayer?
…Sue…
P.S. Thank you, Courtney Jenks, for this peaceful picture of two heart-leaves waiting patiently together. Happy birthday season!
