I was taught to say my prayers each night.
The Our Father as an end note to my day.
On Sunday’s I sat in the wooden pew and watched my papa preach.
He weaved stories.
Words strung together.
Me straining to understand what they meant for my life.
Years passed. Different wooden pews. Different men and women with their words and my ache to understand.
And then these last 8 years the clarity came in moments least expected.
Moments alone with joy and with grief, I came to realize I wasn’t by myself.
Turning to him, head bowed, heart opened in prayer, I learned that I was supported in my aloneness.
He would carry me, if only I brought myself to his feet.
So I have.
On days when the dog throws up on the carpet, when I forget to pack lunches or when my flight is delayed three times over and I miss those meetings a thousand miles away;
I look to him in my exasperation.
When the girl’s dad tells me he has made the decision to remarry or Audrey’s third grade teacher praises her social intelligence;
I turn to him to guide my response.
The understanding reached.
I can be alone, together.