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.