On the days when I get really fearful, I say a tiny prayer. It’s called a breath prayer. During a series my pastor in Connecticut taught on the Beatitudes, he taught us how to say breath prayers—short, gritty prayers that get right to the point. You can say them anywhere and in any posture. You simply pick a sentence, something that looks like a prayer, and repeat it under your breath over and over again. Not long after, the breath prayer makes a little space
in your heart and stays there.
I love the idea of breath prayers. There are plenty of times when I can’t find the words or don’t have the energy to get on my knees and pray. There are even times when I feel like my prayers aren’t good enough, as if God won’t meet me in my mess. There are days when I feel like every word that comes out of my mouth is fake or forced. Breath prayers help me bridge the gap between praying sometimes and praying without ceasing.
My breath prayer for when
fear tries to take back the lead role is simple: Reduce me to love.
I can’t take credit for making this prayer up. I hear it one morning as I pray with a group of volunteers at my church. I had signed up to work at a conference for worship leaders who came from all over the country to rest, refuel, and get inspired.
Before the doors open on the second morning, our group huddles close and links arms. The woman in the center begins to pray. At one point, she says it. “Reduce me to
love. God, reduce me to love.”
After we say amen, we get into place at the doors. Our job is to welcome the worship leaders and get them pumped for the full day ahead. I’m still not certain why anyone would think to give me this sort of job. I only make things more awkward when I am left to greet strangers. I’m that person who welcomes someone into the building and asks, “Is this your first time at church?” They give me the stink eye when they tell me they’ve been attending for four
years. I’ve since retired from greeting people and now deliver coffee and bagels to the other people serving on a Sunday. It’s easier to talk to bagels than to people.
I start saying hello to people as they come in the doors. Some look tired. Some look caffeinated. Some look like members of the band One Direction, and some look like Jesus.
A man walks toward me with stringy gray hair. He has his arms stretched out as if he has known me for years, as if this is our family reunion
and he’s my uncle. I looked at his name tag: Gino.
Gino and I hug like it’s second nature. He pulls out his harmonica and begins playing “Amazing Grace” in the middle of the lobby as if no one else were there.
“What’ll you have me play?” he asks.
I request the song “Danny Boy.” He plays it, and I close my eyes for a minute. The song makes me think of my grandmother. It was one of her favorites. I can still hear her exclaiming over how much she loved that song.
Gino
finishes his song. He places his hand on my shoulder and...
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