Prayer is an ancient and simple way to prepare yourself for grace, or love, and to learn to recognize it when it comes. Even the briefest "grace" spoken before dinner offers its time-honored wisdom. Yet in spite of hundreds of traditions and teachings and books about prayer, millions of Americans have become ambivalent about it. They are unsure how, when, where, and even why they might pray, afraid they’ll do it wrong, or worried that they won’t be heard.
Writing in the beautiful, funny, honest narrative style that moved and inspired readers of her first book, Here If You Need Me, Kate Braestrup explains what prayer is and the many ways we can pray. With an approach that is both personal and inclusive, Beginner’s Grace is a new kind of prayer book. Even if you don’t pray and don’t consider yourself religious, there’s room in this book for you. In these pages, Braestrup explains how and why the practice of prayer can open a space in our busy lives for mindfulness, gratitude, contentment, and a wider compassion toward others.
Inspired by her work as a chaplain, Braestrup includes many examples of prayers to draw from—beginning with grace, a brief prayer of thanks. She provides clear models and practical suggestions for making your own and your family’s prayers meaningful and satisfying, and offers prayers for situations in which words might fail: times of anxiety, helplessness, or grief. And she invites you to explore forms of prayer that extend into the wider community, including prayer with and for people we don’t like or with whom we disagree.
A welcoming modern guide to the simplest, most effective way to satisfy a universal spiritual hunger, Beginner’s Grace is for the religious and nonreligious and even irreligious in its generous, good-humored approach to spirituality. With its insight and warmth, Beginner’s Grace is sure to become a spiritual touchstone for people of all faiths
1
An Invitation to Prayer
“The nurse said what?” I asked.
It was after midnight, but I was already out of bed, groping sleepily for a shirt and a pair of pants.
“Something’s wrong.” On the other end of the phone, Ruth’s voice quavered. “The baby isn’t breathing properly.”
Ruth was thirty-nine years old and highly educated. She had given birth that afternoon to her third child after a difficult and perhaps not altogether welcome pregnancy.
She had already struggled through one major bout of depression, was having severe back pain from an old injury, and was overwhelmed by the demands of her two small boys. On top of this, she had an emotionally demanding job working with abused children. Because of her medical conditions and “advanced age,” her pregnancy was considered high-risk, which meant she had to drive two hours to a specialist every week for prenatal care.
Still, the day before, when I had bumped into Ruth at the community pool, she had seemed pretty upbeat. The water was entertaining her children and helping to support the weight of her belly, and as we chatted, she cheerfully told me that she thought she might already be in early labor.
Baby Nina was born that afternoon by cesarean section, and all had apparently gone well. The other children and Ruth’s husband, Wally, had come for a visit and then gone home. That was when, Ruth told me, things started to get strange. The baby wasn’t responding well to tests; her oxygen levels were lower than they should have been. Ruth was told that Nina would have to be taken to the neonatal intensive care nursery for a more extensive evaluation. The nurse who escorted Ruth back to her hospital room was silent while Ruth climbed into bed. On her way out, the nurse turned in the doorway and regarded Ruth for a moment.
“And then she told me to pray,” Ruth said.
With clumsy, sleepy fingers, I was fitting a white vinyl tab into the collar of my black shirt. The white parallelogram it made at my throat would declare me as clergy.
“Oh, Ruth,” I said.
“She said that was my job right now,” Ruth went on. “To pray for my baby girl. I’m really sorry to wake you up in the middle of the night, but I don’t know what she meant. I don’t even know how to pray… and I thought maybe, because you’re… you know, a minister… maybe you could just tell me, like, really quickly: How do I pray for my baby?”
“I’ll be right there,” I said.
I am ordained in a particular form of ministry known as “community ministry.” I don’t serve in a church, but rather, along with a growing company of clergy, I serve diverse populations out “in the world.” Some of us spend our time among the homeless, others as chaplains serving in the military, in hospitals, or with firefighters, police officers, and other first responders. As chaplain to the Maine Warden Service, the agency that polices the state’s roughly seventeen million acres of wildland, I accompany game wardens to accidents and drownings and search-and-rescue operations in the Maine woods. Regardless of the circumstances, community ministry brings us into close contact with people whose socioeconomic and religious backgrounds vary widely, and who may share with us little more than birth, illness, and death—the common features of human experience. Whatever theological or doctrinal systems a chaplain begins his ministry with, the work itself has a distinctly streamlining effect. A chaplain doesn’t have a leisurely hour in which to explain God. The suffering is right there, and its urgency demands an immediate response. We don’t give a lot of sermons out in the field or in the woods or streets. Instead, we are called upon to offer the spiritual equivalent of triage. We’re asked to pray.
Arriving at the hospital’s neonatal nursery, I expected to see a desperately sick little creature in an incubator. Instead, Nina was stretching and kicking her newborn legs, a lively, lovely baby girl, while a doctor in a white lab coat pressed a stethoscope to her stout little chest. In fact, despite the initially worrying signs, Nina turned out to be fine.
So what on earth was that nurse thinking? To tell the mother of a newborn “You should pray,” can only be interpreted as “Your baby is in terrible, terrible trouble.” Was the nurse an insensitive religious wacko?
No. She was a human being who had just made a mistake. Among the medicines Ruth had taken for her back pain was methadone. When the nurse reviewed Ruth’s file after the baby seemed to have trouble breathing, she saw the drug and jumped to the wrong conclusion: She had thought that Ruth was a heroin addict who had traveled to Bangor, where there is a methadone clinic, throughout her pregnancy.
This isn’t really an excuse for psychological cruelty, but it is an explanation: The nurse thought she was dealing with (yet another) substance abuser whose bad choices were inflicting harm on her own helpless offspring. I have felt the same frustration when witnessing catastrophic parental failures in my work as a chaplain.
I could leave it at that—Ruth had been the victim of misdirected and inappropriate anger. She wasn’t responsible for her baby’s troubles, which, in any case, had proved both mild and transient. Ruth didn’t need to pray. Except that she did need to pray. The nurse’s exhortations, right or wrong, had triggered an instinctive reaction. What’s more, Ruth wanted to pray but didn’t know how.
So I helped Ruth to pray. Here is the prayer we offered together.
HOSPITAL PRAYER
O God, whose name is love
I offer the prayer of my yearning heart
I can’t hold or heal my child.
Please, hold her for me.
Love moves in the skilled hands of those who would heal my baby
Love is in their learning and their care
God be in my understanding.
God be in my patience
God be in my arms, as she is returned to me.
May my child and all children be blessed
My family and all families blessed
May God’s love enfold us, dwell in us, give us comfort
And grant us peace.
Amen.
KB
When I invented this Hospital Prayer, more or less on the spot for Ruth and Nina, I drew it from a well that I’d spent years digging. There was a time when I would have imagined that, having dug my well, I could also claim credit for the water.
Why would it occur to Ruth to pray, and how would she know how to do it? Like Ruth’s family, my family of origin did not pray and only rarely went to church. I learned enough about religion to be politely silent when prayers were offered at the services I visited with friends and at weddings or funerals. The same culture that taught me both “The Battle Hymn of the Republic” and “Glory! Glory! Hallelujah, Teacher hit me with a ruler” taught me the words of the Lord’s Prayer, but it never occurred to me to actually say it. That is, to pray it.
In my early twenties, I felt an unfocused longing—not new but never so acute—that made itself known to me through the insistent if prosaic passions of a young woman who took herself and her life very (and probably too) seriously: the intensity of my love for my husband, the moment when another human being gave his first flutter of greeting from deep within my body, and then in the bloody drama of childbirth.
I wanted to name the longing and respond somehow to its source, by some magnificent gesture if possible, but at least with a moment’s deliberate attention. No nurse was around to tell me that what I wanted was to pray.
I was of two minds about...
