My mind is in a vise of monologue. The questions are constant: Who do I tell and how much do I tell? In what order do I tell the people who need to know? Where should we live? What work will I do? How do we prioritize our decisions? In the meantime, our kids feel the strain, the tightening pragmatism, something looming—we don’t want conversion to loom, do we?
With each one, mini-questions set the monologue vise to squeeze. Do we buy or rent? Do we have enough money to buy? How do we think about buying in this market, and without knowing what’s next? How do we decide where to live? Find a church first? Live close to what’s familiar? How do we decide where to land in a church community with a spiritual father? One possible answer comes to mind, a solution with a string of readjustments, and the monologue starts over again.
There’s a meta-monologue as I tell myself this shouldn’t be a monologue but a prayer. I feel I must grind away until my brain shuts down. But amid the compression, I pray. I pray for mercy. I pray for vision, wisdom and direction. I pray for the safety of my family. I pray for provision. I pray that I will learn how to seek the kingdom and have my needs added to me. I pray that I don’t lose sight of Christ. And, inch by inch, I don’t wait to exit survival mode in order to pray for the world of which I am a part. An aperture one brain cell wide opens in that prayer. Light illumines my mind with the hope and vision of God who desires to deliver, to be that which fills, to set us in a spacious place—Christ our God.
The aperture is widened by prayers like this, set to music by Arvo Pärt. Have a listen. Here are the words:
In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.
We do homage to Thy pure image, O Good One, entreating forgiveness of our transgressions, O Christ our God: For of Thine own good will Thou wast graciously pleased to ascend the Cross in the flesh, that Thou mightest deliver from bondage to the enemy those whom Thou hast fashioned. For which cause we cry aloud unto Thee with thanksgiving: With joy hast Thou filled all things, O our Saviour, in that Thou didst come to save the world.
O Jesus, thou Son of God, have mercy upon us.
O Jesus, thou Son of God, have mercy.
O Jesus, thou Son of God.
O Jesus.
O Jesus, thou Son of God.
O Jesus, thou Son of God, have mercy.
O Jesus, thou Son of God, have mercy upon us.
It reminds me to cry—for imminent partings, for my delusion and for a world in delusion. It reminds me to stop checking my phone as if it will deliver me. It reminds me to look for Christ, to enter into Christ through prayer, and to rejoice.
It calls me back to the Prayer of St. Simeon from the Vespers service. his prayer comes at the end of Vespers. We have praised Christ “as the Light which illumines man’s darkness, the Light of the world and of the Kingdom of God which shall have no evening.”1 Now we prepare for the setting of the sun. A temporary darkness will cover us until Sunday morning when Christ’s resurrection dawns upon mankind.
My family sings with St. Simeon the God Receiver, Lord, now lettest Thou Thy servant depart in peace according to Thy word, for mine eyes have seen Thy salvation: which Thou hast prepared before the face of all people. A light for revelation to the Gentiles, and to be the glory of Thy people Israel (Lk 1.29–32).
After our own temporary darkness, we will see Christ’s dawning in the new day, an eternal day. We sing from the outside, having a glimpse of the True Light of the World. We sing, ready to join Christ’s incarnate body and bride. We sing with the anticipation of joining Divine Liturgy.
Soon, the vise will loose and the darkness will lift. Soon, what feels distant and abstract will not become close and practical, but flesh and blood.
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