I was sitting to eat with a friend last weekend and he asked if I wanted to pray before we ate.  I froze momentarily.  I asked if that was routine for him to pray before he ate.  I said I was fine to do whatever.  I realize I am no longer convinced that I know what prayer really looks like.

There was a time in my not so distant past when I squinched my eyes and heart and soul in a concerted effort to speak to God  as I knew him with all of my being.  These days, I am challenged by my former thinking.  These days…I am listening to life and telling the truth as I know it and see it and experience it.

I ran an 8k two weeks ago amidst an unseasonal snow storm.  Friends sent witty text messages advising me to wear my snowpants and boots.  I had every reason not to run that morning, the weather, the weather; and quite frankly a lack of training.  I pulled thin layers on over my body and flaunted the just purchased hoodie with the words running up my arm, ” run like a girl.”

I got to the starting line ten minutes after the runners  had left the corrale.  I began down the frosted city streets, watching by own breath in huffs and rubbing snot from my dripping nose.  The streets were empty and the landscape of the city hung before me.  My toes were wet and frozen…but there just ahead, the runners were now within view.  I kept reminding myself to pace…this is only mile one.  The first runner I passed appeared to be an older man in perhaps his late sixties or early seventies.  His run was more of a pronounced scoot with his feet; I almost cried as the sight of him shot inspiration through every part of my being.  I made my way to the pack, passing people with prosthetic limbs, couples cheering one another on, people struggling with severe obesity…all there; pushing through.  By mile 4, I played a game with myself to pass as many runners as possible and ended the last uphill stretch with a sense of elation .  As the finish line came into view, I sprinted as fast as my legs could carry me.  The cheers of strangers clapping and screaming, “go runners,” echoed me through.  The photographer snapped my picture as I waved my arm in accomplishment.  And then it hit me…’ what now?’  I watched for a second as the runners were greeted with hugs and signs by friends and family.  In that moment it dawned on me…” no one is here for me.”  For a millasecond I allowed this great sadness to be present.  Then I  consciencely left it behind me and headed home.  In retrospect…this experience felt more like praying  to me than any of the  poetically strewn together words ever spoken amidst circles of hand holding friends. 

It is so strange now as I interface with the practices that have so shaped my life for so many years.  If someone asks to pray before a meal or at any other time…I have learned to listen; as with everything else. 

These days, however, I am allowing my soul to figure out what prayer is and means and looks like for me. 

There was no rhetoric as I ran that day.  But my soul felt alive in the silence…