prayer

Lord,

At cell last week you asked, through the power of friends and their consoling words, if there was anything I wanted to pray about. My first selfish thought, was that I wanted a prayer for me. I need guidance, a sign, something telling me what it is exactly that I'm supposed to do here, because you and I don't really speak all that much but I'd really like to hear what you'd have to say. I'd like to weigh it against what I have to say, and if we see eye to eye, I think we could be real cool, like Stevie Wonder cool.

I mumbled off the second thought that came into my head, which was a prayer for Blacky, because he means a lot to me and I know you know that otherwise he'd have already gone blind by now, and I know you've got a soft spot for that house but it'd be nice if Blacky got a break, he's old you know. I'd really like to think you're omnipotent because that would make things very easy for me to explain because I wouldn't have to, but then at the same time I wish you weren't and you were corporeal and I could talk to you at the bus stop like I talk to old ladies at the bus stop who ask me what I'm reading. I wish you and I could meet like old friends by accidentally bumping into each other and realizing that we haven't spoke in a long time, possibly forever in fact, and I would ask if you had a chance to talk and you would say Yes, child and we'd duck into Good Earth and drink coffee. You'd tell me your Son is doing well, I mean apart from dying for my sins, but then when you'd ask about me you'd know the real good questions to ask, not the meaningless drivel that accompanies the SOP for "quick friendly chat". You'd ask me, "Why are you rotting?"

Nobody asks anyone something as disgusting as that. Rot. It's an ugly word, real dull and rusty and orange and ochre. I would sit there, contemplate a moment, then answer, I'm not really sure. I feel really disgusting though, like my insides are digesting themselves, like my face is falling off one fleck of skin at a time, like my hair is greasy and I shower four times a day but I still feel unbelievably dirty. I'm rotting at my work, at my academics, obviously at faith as you can see. Friendships are turning brown, ripe and sticky. You will nod, a comforting one that says I know without saying it. You will recant tales about Job, just about the only Bibilical tale I know but at least it's one I can relate to without you confusing me greatly. You will offer direction, and tell me where I must put my foot so that I do not fall, so that I can walk with you like in the sand of that Footprints poem you see everywhere.

I will say, "You know, I still don't know how the story of Job ends."
And you will reply, "I know. But you will learn."

I will learn.
I will look you in the eye and say, "Thanks for not spoiling the ending."
You will look me back and say, "You are the ending."

Let me be your test. In your name I pray.