From lament to praise: an early morning prayer

It’s 7:30 a.m. and I’m down in the laundry room. I know that you already know this, Lord, but I’m setting it down for the record because I forget. But you know that, too. So be patient and let me lament, rant, praise, and pray in my own clumsy way.

The four driers are tossing my clothes about, loudly humming as they do. I’ve finished my coffee. There’s a bitter taste in my mouth.

There’s a slightly bitter taste in my soul as well. I feel like lament, but I want to praise. So I’m going to try and combine the two.

I praise you, Lord, for all the changes in my body. I used to be a morning person. I used to wake early and pop out of bed, eager to greet the day. No more. I often wake from a night of poor sleep, having gotten up several times to go to the bathroom or from coughing and gagging. I go out to the living room to see if I can sleep sitting up. Sometimes I manage for a couple of hours but then I wake up with an aching back. I greet the day groggy and more than a little grumpy. Definitely not a morning person.

Problem is, I’m not a noon, mid-day, or night person either. What kind of a person am I?

OK! Enough of that. This is pure lament. Or maybe just complaining.

How can I combine this with praise? Is praise even legitimate when my whole body is protesting and my emotions are nowhere near a “spiritual high”?

Of course. I’ll just begin.

Praise you, God, for old bodies. Mine in particular. I can still walk; well, sometimes it’s more like a dizzy wobble, but it gets me where I need to go. My eyes still see; even if I can’t read the street signs, I can tell if anything’s coming toward me down the road. I can still hear; although I haven’t quite got the hang of manipulating the controls on these hearing aids, it’s better with them on.

Praise you, God, for my life companion. Although life would be easier if he were not so old, he understands all I’m going through. Old love isn’t the same as young passion, but a hug is just as comforting. The memories are sweeter because we share them. And even though it’s taken all these years to get to know one another, we’re still learning new things.

Praise you, God, for the beauty of the earth. From my chair by the window, I watch the day dawn. The clouds outside put on a difference performance every day, and here I am with a front row seat. The coleus plant on the window ledge has a limited wardrobe of only one outfit, but I never tire of admiring it. As I walk the canyon path, sometimes a deer surprises me, makes my heart beat faster.

Praise you, God, for family. I guess we’re the oldest now. The ancient matriarch and patriarch. Supposedly the wise ones. (We know better, but we’re not telling.) Any day now, the newest great grand-baby will be born. Our son and daughter-in-law get to be the grandparents—something that amazes me even more than this birth. We’ll let them, while we watch from the sidelines. It’s their turn. Family. It keeps going on and on. Praise.

Praise you, God, for good work that gives definition to my days and a way to make a small contribution to the well-being of others. For my job as poetry editor of a magazine that thousands of Quakers read every month. They all need good poems, whether or not they realize that. For my work as editor of the community journal of my retirement home; it lets me encourage my companions on this journey to tell their stories and give us a glimpse of who they are. For the privilege of coordinating the Sunday school class that has become my church family. All of this is joyful work. I thank you, God.

Praise you, God, that there are still stories to be told and poems to be written. And that you think I’m young enough to do some of that good work.

And praise you that although I woke up tired and grumpy this morning, I’m no longer that person. I’m praising you, glad to be who I am right now.

And so glad that you are who you are.

“Friendship, Faith, and the Camino de Santiago”

 As a young person, I had a wish-list of experiences I hoped awaited me as I journeyed through life. There were, as the saying goes, “places to go, people to meet, and things to do!” As the years progressed, I was able to fulfill many of these dreams, plus some new ones that popped up along the way.

Now in the years of retirement, the list has morphed into “places I’ll probably never go to, people I won’t meet, things I’ll never do.” Sounds like resignation, but perhaps it’s better named “reality.”

But some of things on that list I now get to experience vicariously, often through a good book. Recently I fulfilled a wish by vicariously walking the famous Camino de Santiago in Spain. Not only that, my daughter accompanied me. Or, better said, I followed her footsteps, as it was her dream; then her reality.

And now her book. The Way We Walked: Faith, Friendship, and the Camino de Santiago, by Kristin Gault (2025). In the summer of 2024, Kristin and her friend Heather walked the more-than-200-mile trail (camino) from Porto, Portugal to the Santiago Cathedral in Compostela, northwest Spain, a walk of 12 days. Thousands of people a year walk the Camino for many different reasons, anything from a way to process grief, to have a spiritual retreat, or to just have fun and an adventure. But, as Kristin discovered, the Camino can surprise you and give you something rich you hadn’t realized you needed. She writes in her introduction,

“Heather and I started this journey out of a sense of adventure. Every detail was meticulously thought out from the socks we would wear, to the size of our backpack—determined by how many liters it could hold, to the number of miles we would be walking each day, to the specific route we would take. Everything planned.

“What we didn’t plan for was how quickly this walk would morph into an internal journey God was taking each of us through. It became less about the things we could control and more about what was happening on the inside of each of us.

“They say the Camino doesn’t give you what you want, but what you need. I wanted a leisurely stroll with no pain, accompanied by long lunches beside the beach, and lots of laughs. What God had in store was entirely different.”

As each chapter carries us through a day on the Camino, we experience the beauty of Portugal. (“Nothing really beats the magic of being the first ones up and walking along a dark cobblestone street lit by street lamps…. As we neared the ocean, the sound of the waves grew louder and louder…. Surrounded by beauty, a sense of wonder and awe replaced all my previous worries and concerns. I was right where I was supposed to be.”)

Along with Kristin, we experience the specific agony of unexpected blisters, heat, swelling feet, and a new dependence on Vaseline. We meet other pilgrims on the way, strangers who become friends. We learn to wash our underwear at night, hoping it gets dry by morning. We face the trauma of being in a strange town with nowhere to spend the night, only to be rescued by the kindness of strangers.

All our outward adventures force a deeper inward look where we discover God healing old wounds, renewing our spirits. At one low point of physical pain and discouragement, a loving hostess’ listening ear and words of encouragement turned things around. Kristin writes that “the journey had just officially stepped out of the realm of adventure into a true pilgrimage for me. I didn’t yet know what that all meant, but something had shifted for me and I was already experiencing a deep change inside myself.”

I won’t detail the specific adventures, challenges, serendipities, and deep lessons Kristin experienced. That’s for you to read for yourselves. But I did let myself be brought into the story and so vicariously walked the Camino and learned the life lessons such an experience teaches.

I’m realizing that I’m walking my own Camino, really, not just vicariously. It called the Camino of Growing Older. Some of the life lessons Kristin learned on her walk can apply to my current adventure. Kristin and Heather chose to walk the Camino de Santiago, and that’s where my journey differs. I didn’t choose to grow older, but now that I’m on the path I would do well to see it as a grand adventure. It’s a journey with a destination. And I don’t mean death.

Traveling light was one of Kristin’s key strategies. Not more than 10 pounds—that was the goal (until she had to start adding blister medications), and it made a difference. For me, traveling light means more that downsizing our stuff, although it includes that. It means making sure I’m at peace with my memories and relationships; regrets are way too heavy. I need to forgive, heal, and release.

Being aware of beauty as I walk the trail is another key. The cloud formations outside my window, the sunrises and sunsets, the distant trees. And the close-up trees as I walk the path down by the creek. And the beauty in the faces I pass in the halls every day. Lovely old faces full of character, memories, and battle scars. Sparkling eyes full of mischief. And the beauty of the presence as I sit in silence in the early morning.

Companions are a necessity. Travel buddies. Friends. I’m not the only one around here growing older. We all face similar challenges and we can give each other courage. We can tell our stories. We can make each other laugh. When I get too tired, I need your hand on my back, giving me a little push.

Grit and determination! Another necessary element. I remember at one point in the book where the pain and discouragement were almost overwhelming, Kristin told herself that “giving up is not an option!” She writes that “The blisters were pushed hard against the sides of my shoes, and I just continued breathing deep through it all, pushing myself forward. After about twenty minutes, I realized I was going to be okay, and the pain became more bearable as my body adjusted and got used to it.” That little scenario played itself out over and over. Persistence and determination. The courage to put one foot in front of the other and just keep going.

I need that, too. My body is changing and I face several chronic conditions that may get better with time and medication (I’m also open to miracle). But then again, I may not get better. I may need to do just what I can every day, knowing that I am moving forward, getting closer to the journey’s destination.

And as I let God change me, my adventure turns into pilgrimage.

So, through the words of my daughter, I’ve walked the Camino de Santiago. I can cross that off my list. I’m also walking another challenging Camino. I have marvelous companions (one of whom I sleep with every night) and the best of Best Friends. Beauty surrounds me, begs me to attend to it. Laughter helps. And telling stories. The Spirit strengthens me to move forward, sometimes walking into the pain, applying plenty of spiritual Vaseline, and always keeping the end of the pilgrimage in sight.

What a trip!

The irrelevance of death

As I write this, on Monday, September 29, it’s the actual day of my 80^th birthday. I’m entering into a new decade and a new phase in the adventure that is growing older. It’s hitting me today—80 years old. That’s up there. The thought that occurred to me in the early hours was that, from here on, death will not be a tragedy, but rather a normal part of life. It’s coming closer all the time. That’s natural. People might say, “Too bad she’s gone, but she lived a good long life.” And it would be true.

What a strange combination—celebration and death. But that’s how my mind works sometimes.

Hal and I are memorizing Psalm 16, a passage full of encouragement and bright promise. I encourage you to taste it, too. Concerning death and the future, the last three verses read,

“… my heart is glad and my tongues rejoices;
my body also will rest secure,
because you will not abandon me to the realm of the dead,
nor will you let your faithful one see decay.
You make known to me the path of life;
you will fill me with joy in your presence,
with eternal pleasures at your right hand.”

The words about not leaving us in the realm of the dead nor letting us see decay are said to be about Jesus and his resurrection from the dead. But I think they speak of us, too. They tell us that, for God’s faithful followers, death is irrelevant. It’s not the final word. At 80, I may be closer to that big transition, but that’s what it is—a transition from life to LIFE.

I need not be afraid.

Now on to the poem that I come back to every September 29, which, on the liturgical calendar, is the Feast of the Archangels. What a day to be born!

 

September 29
(The Feast of the Archangels)

Every year on September 29
they gather.
Raphael brings the drinks,
while Michael and Gabriel
raid the pantry for caviar and taco chips.
They congregate in the fireside room,
spread the food on the table,
pull out the Parcheesi board,
and take off their shoes.
Then they sing.
They start with the old songs
--Psalm 100, the Magnificat,
"Behold, I bring good tidings"
(a favorite after all these years)--
work their way through Gregorian chants
and Martin Luther to New World
Yankee Doodle, Southern gospel,
and somewhere in the process
they sing Happy Birthday to me.
With voices like whales
or arctic wolves,
strange, far, and wholly holy,
the archangels celebrate.
"Don't be afraid," they tell me.
Planets realign.
The juice of the sun flows free.

Two celebrations plus a sea otter

 Celebrations restore the spirit, no matter how young or old we are. My spirit has been restored twice since my last blogpost. The celebrations span the generations. My grandson and his new wife are beginning their life of adventure in North Africa, and many of their supporters and friends gathered to pray for them as they prepare to leave us soon. And, on the other end of the age spectrum, the family gathered to celebrate my 80^th birthday. Can you imagine? Grandson and Grandma, whooping it up.

Aren and Anna were married in June and now they’re preparing for what might be a long-term adventure in a North African country, helping set up local businesses. They’re planning to travel light, and purchase locally all they need to live on which will probably be minimal. They’re very idealistic and totally committed.

Last week they invited a group of their supporters and prayer partners to a barbecue, with dishes they prepared from their new adopted country. These kids could set up a restaurant business if they wanted! Delicious food. It was a time for them to express their appreciation for all the support people have shown them. And it was a time for us to celebrate their dedication and commitment and to pray for them.

Like a typical Grandma, I couldn’t help but remember when Aren was a baby, very cute and often very serious, a determined but totally funny toddler. As he grew up, we didn’t understand what ADHD was, but when he finally received the diagnosis, all his restlessness and hyper-activity as a young boy made sense. Not that he was always restless. He showed great powers of concentration when building things, first with blocks, then graduating to Tinkertoys, Lincoln Logs, and finally to elaboration Lego constructions. Now armed with a degree in mechanical engineering (a natural!) he’s off to change the world. We couldn’t be prouder.

Then on Sunday, it was my turn.  In the middle of a sea of sunny days, this was predicted to be the one day it rained. As it turned out, the sun did his usual beautiful thing. The celebration was in a covered pavilion in a public park and four generations converged, with Hal and me being the oldies, and our two and one/half great-grand-babies bringing up the tail (and hogging most of the attention by being their adorable selves).

The day before, I mentioned to Hal at breakfast that I feared our son David was going to ask me to say some words of wisdom to the group. So I asked Hal to help me think up some wise words beforehand. We thought a while, but both of us came up blank. Then I remembered the three words. Earlier, in a time of quiet meditation, I had asked God for three words that I could live out in my 80^th year of life, something to encourage and inspire. The words that popped into my brain (or were placed there) were courage, humor, and beauty. My spirit said YES. So these are my words for 2025-2026. I’m not sure just how I will live out these words; I’ll have to let you know later. But I decided that if asked for some wise words at my party, I could toss these into the air.

It was all such a happy time and I was given the gift of a family glad to celebrate the life of this 80-year-old lady. We ate well, got caught-up on news, laughed, celebrated, and had birthday-cobbler (my not being a fan of cake). I did not have to blow out 80 candles. But I warmed my heart to more than 80 words of memories, gratitude, and celebration, all gifts from them to me. I shared my three words and my daughter added two more for me to take into the year: grace and joy. I think it will be a good year. Maybe not always easy, but good.

I encourage you to take any chance you get to celebrate life and the ones you love. Maybe even let God give you some new words to live by. It certainly makes growing old easier. Joyful even.

 

Note: I promised in the title I would say something about sea otters. By the way, this has nothing to do with the rest of the blog on celebrations. It’s just that I thought you should know that this is National Sea Otter Awareness Week. In order to become more aware of sea otters, I did some Internet research. Among other facts, I learned that Alaskan sea otters often float out to sea on thin ice rafts. If two otters float out, each on a separate raft, they hold hands (paws) to stay together. That’s inspiring. Aren’t you glad you know?

Worn out, but waiting

St. Paul has some interesting metaphors for old age and old bodies in 2 Corinthians 5:1-9. He describes an old body as an old tent that is gradually being destroyed. I understand that metaphor. We have a two-person camping tent that is well used and very hospitable; it freely invites the rain to come in. I understand it also in terms of a body whose cloth is wrinkling, actually threadbare in parts. The patches don’t really disguise it.

In contrast to this old fragile tent, Paul tells us we will someday be clothed in a heavenly building. That’s a bit harder to imagine. How does one wear a house, no matter how beautiful? I guess it’s symbolic for comfortable and just right for us. Paul goes on to say that our groaning aching mortal bodies will be swallowed up by Life. That’s another metaphor than stretches the imagination. And finally, Paul says that dying means “being away from the body and at home with the Lord.”

I deal with metaphor through poetry. So here are some poems that play with these different images and somehow stoke my hope that, whatever happens, all will be well.

Mixed Metaphor
…we groan, longing to be clothed … with our heavenly building…. (2 Corinthians 5:2)

How can one be clothed with a building?
How can a tent or a mansion drape our bodies
like wool or linen? Does homeless mean naked?
A canvas tent tearing at the seams, breaking apart
with time. An eternal house in heaven,
built of sterner stuff. How do these fit our bodies?
Expose or adorn us?
How does one wear a house?


Worn-out
While we are in this tent, we groan and are burdened, because we do not wish to be unclothed. (2 Corinthians 5:4)

Groans and burdens aptly describe old age.
My tent has become threadbare with time and trauma.
Soon nurses will expose me, wipe me, wash me
as I silently lament my nakedness.
No one wishes to be unclothed.
So I groan and long for home.
For my new body.
For my new clothes.


Perfect Fit
… to be clothed … with our heavenly dwelling. (2 Corinthians 5:4)

I look forward
to putting on my new house.
The outside walls, of some strong flexible fabric,
fold my body in heavenly comfort.
I don’t worry about curbside appeal
for the beauty is obvious.
The door is sturdy redwood
and always open.
A wall of windows lets in light
and more colors than I knew existed.
No need of artificial electricity,
and the plumbing works
though the pipes are invisible.
Living water is instantly and eternally available.
My house clothes me well, blesses my body.
A perfect fit.

Swallowed
… what is mortal [will] be swallowed up by life…. (2 Corinthians 5:4)

I can hardly imagine.
These skinny legs, wrinkled hands,
broken promises and disappointments
will one day face the wide open
mouth of Life.
One huge slurp and mortality dissolves.
Swallowed up.
What happens next?
Like I said, I can hardly imagine.

The Reason?
… as long as we are at home in the body we are away from the Lord. (2 Corinthians 5:6)

Is old age God’s way of preparing us for heaven?
As digestion becomes complicated
and we labor to take each breath,
as we go from cane to walker to wheelchair,
saying we’re not at home in our body
is understatement. Our bodies become strangers
and no prayer delivers from this dis-ease.
We’re ready to move on.


Now
Now is the time of God’s favor, now is the day of salvation. (2 Corinthians 6:2)

Good morning, world.
Here I am, ready to go,
ready to stay, ready to leap
over a wall, ready to find a shovel,
dig a while and crawl under that wall.
I’ll find a way.
I’ll be the way.
Today is the day.
With nothing on my schedule,
I know without a doubt
my time has come. 

Grandma's Tattoo

 I did it! I actually really did the audacious thing I’d dared myself to do. And I have bodily proof.

But let me back up. This month is a milestone in my life. I turn 80. I always thought 80 was really old. I’m now having to reconsider my criteria of what makes old. At any rate, it’s a special time. As I was thinking about how I could celebrate in a new way, to mark a new phase of life, the idea of getting a tattoo flew into my brain. Seemingly from nowhere. This has never been an ambition. In fact, I remember a time in my younger years when, to my mind, only Hell’s Angels and juvenile delinquents got tattoos. Scary tattoos at that.

Maybe it’s because my daughter and several of my granddaughters have recently gotten tattoos. And they are lovely—not scary at all. Works of art actually.

But at 80? That was Hal’s reaction when I passed the idea by him. He was not at all positive. Not because he thought it was wrong but because he thought it might be dangerous. Cause excessive bleeding. Bring on infection with life-changing consequences. Well—I might be exaggerating a little, but he definitely was dubious. But Hal is generous enough to respect me as I work through my own decisions.

I did a little research on tattoos and the elderly and found that it was not widely recommended, but that it depended on the older person involved. It might be fine if the person were in good health and had a fairly firm patch of skin on which to do the job. But even then, recovery might take more time. The mention of recovery gave me pause.

But I didn’t pause for long. I consulted with my granddaughter Alandra as she had several tattoos and would know how to go about it. And she would know who could do it safely and artistically. She responded with excitement, thought it was a cool 80^th birthday present, offered to find a place and then accompany me. Plus, she would get a tattoo at the same time. That really got me going.

It happened on Saturday, just a few days ago. We made a day of it. Alandra and her boyfriend Ben took Hal and me out to lunch at an Italian restaurant. Good food and great conversation, a time to get to know Ben better. Then a little later the same afternoon, Alandra picked me up and we drove to the home of a friend who is an experienced tattoo artist. She works from her living room. The atmosphere was peaceful and homey, the music soft.

We decided I should go first, to get the nervous part over quickly. The first task was to find the right place. I had already chosen the lower part of my left leg. I found a spot that was firm, with no varicose veins anywhere near. It took a while to find exactly the right position, but since it was “forever” that was important. Then came the actual tattooing. It hurt, but no more than I had imagined. Alandra got me reminiscing about how Hal and I got together and that helped pass the time.

It took about 40 minutes, and then it was Alandra’s turn. We had decided to get matching tattoos, which made the whole adventure that much more fun.

I chose a daisy and Alandra found just the right image. The daisy is one of my favorite flowers because it seems so happy. It’s beautiful in its own small way. Also, it’s rather ordinary and common. You can find wild daisies in so many places. That increases its value to me. The daisy was our wedding flower.

Long ago I named my vocation as a writer “to discover and express the grace of God hidden in the ordinariness of life.” The daisy symbolizes this.

Now I’m processing the whole adventure. Why did I want a tattoo in the first place? So that I could seem cool to my grandkids? No, not really, although that’s a fun consequence. To defy age, to say that turning 80 is no big deal? No, I don’t think so. I’m trying to embrace my age and the stage of life I happen to be in. I’m trying to see all the positives, although I’m not always successful. I have my bad days. My body complains more than it used to. But still, this is where I am and I am determined to make the best of it.

Part of why I did it is simply because I love beauty and art in its many expressions. And because I love daisies.

But more than that, I think it’s because I desired to do something totally new, to take a risk, to do something unlike what I’ve ever even considered doing before. “Sing a new song,” the psalmist says. In Christ, all things become new, the Apostle Paul tells us. God’s mercies are new every morning; that’s Jeremiah. New means refreshing, invigorating, creative. I’m asking the Spirit of God to do something new in my life this year, something that goes way beyond getting a tattoo.

We’re never too old for new.

Yes! to the movements of the Spirit!

Yes! to tattoos!

Thoughts on simplicity while shredding paper

As anyone who has attempted to de-clutter their life knows, simplicity can be complicated. It involves tackling not only the accumulation of stuff—those bins of college syllabi, old magazines, childhood treasures—but extra tasks we’ve taken on, organizations we’ve joined, the demands other people make on us, and all the clutter in our minds.

I remember one of the biggest decluttering jobs I ever undertook. It was over 25 years ago. After more than 75 years of service, the Friends Mission officially pulled out of Bolivia, leaving behind a national church of over 200 congregations with its own leadership, forms, and finances. It was time. Hal and I were the last missionaries on the field, so our task was deciding what to do with 75 years of accumulated mission files.

The first phase required that we decide what to keep, which basically came down to legal documents and records that had historical significance: correspondence, yearly financial reports, minutes, working agreements, and so on. Since most of this history took place before the internet and safe-keeping in the Cloud, that meant boxes of paper.

After setting aside the keeper documents, we had to deal with reams of minutia. We were overwhelmed with stuff, from multiple mimeographed copies of some class a missionary gave, to receipts for bottles of aspirin. We decided to shred the minutia, bag it, and let the municipal garbage service haul it off. That became our job description: sort, shred, bag.

As I sat on the rug shredding, many thoughts came to mind. I remembered that all these pieces of paper were related to real people and real situations. Long financial worksheets reminded me of the economic crisis of the 1980s when run-away inflation caused many of our Bolivian friends to lose their life-savings. The medical receipts brought forth images of Vicente and Arturo, Friends pastors who literally gave their lives in the service of the gospel.

I was impressed by the integrity all the receipts and reports represented. Every thing was accounted for and recorded. I also thought about all the trees that were sacrificed to maintain such integrity.

And I reflected on the values this task represented. I noted how one person’s garbage can be another person’s treasure. I observed how the bags of shredded paper we put in front of our gate almost always disappeared before the garbage truck arrived. Apparently a local industry was finding this stuff useful as packing material. It was cheaper than plastic bubbles. This made me feel a little better about the trees.

But mostly I reflected on the value of simplicity. It felt good. As the accumulation of paper lessoned, I felt relief. And today, too, whether it’s clearing out closets or the refrigerator, cleaning my desktop, simplifying my schedule, or re-ordering my priorities, the resulting sense of lightness and rightness makes it worth the effort.

I also reflected on the fact that, as mentioned above, simplicity is complicated. That’s a great oxymoron. None of this is easy or automatic. Simplicity is not simple. To let the stuff in my files or on my desk accumulate takes no effort whatsoever. Bringing order out of chaos does. It requires time, energy, organization, wisdom, and generosity, a willingness to give away what might be useful to someone else.

Recently as I was walking the labyrinth our Friends meeting has constructed in an adjacent field, I found myself repeating a simple prayer: “You are my life. You are my life.” It was as though God was reeling me in, bringing me back to the basic simplicity of soul from which all else flows. I found myself asking, with the psalmist, “Whom have I in heaven but you? And earth has nothing I desire beside you” (Psalm 73).

I felt God reminding me that simplicity begins in the heart. It flows from a life oriented to the source of all life, from the deep knowledge that in God alone we “live and move and have our being.” That’s basic to Christianity, yet somehow I keep forgetting.

As I walked that path, I began to affirm, “Above all relationships—husband, children, grandchildren, friends—you are my life. Above all I possess or hold on to for security—my car, my books, my insurance policies, my investments—you are my life. Above all the intangibles I cling to—my health, my education, my achievements, my talents, my rights, my dreams—you are my life.” And I found myself praying, “Oh, Lord. Let it be. Change my heart. Keep reeling me in to yourself.”

I am sensing that only when I live from the simplicity of a life oriented to God can I move freely into the world as God’s agent of reconciliation and peace.

When will I start remembering this so much that I live by it? When will this attitude become a holy habit?

Prayer: “Take from our souls the strain and stress, and let our ordered lives confess the beauty of thy peace.” (John Greenlead Whittier)