better prayers

In the event you should find an hypodermic needle in your pulpit you may consult the anglican book of prayer but there is not (yet) a specific prayer for such an occasion therein.

On the occasion you unwrap a gift from a lover... 15 years too late. Too late for what? To know you were loved so deeply? No. It is never too late for that. But there is no prayer for that.

In case you are having the hardest year of your life there is no prayer for that. Other than the tears or swears that seem to come too easily.

Or for the day when you think she said her first word, but you're not sure because, well, do babies really know how to say "Thank you?"

Is there a prayer other than, "O God. I'm not sure what any of this means. Help me figure this out"?

So I'm terribly distracted these days,
writing prayers better than the flare prayers from a sinking ship,
Setting intentions (you know, getting specific about the goals like "practice radical gratitude because logic isn't your style anyway" or "stop reading facial expressions through the lens of fear" or "notice birds-at least their songs-every day")

And I'm doing all this as though I were planning a funeral: mine as if it were yours. Worried that you will not go on without me. Narcissistic, I know. But I'm just being honest.
The funeral I'm thinking of is more a bon voyage party: you will go on this great journey without me.
You don't need me anyway, not nearly as much as I wish you did... and you surely don't need me if I'm not grateful or brave or noticing birds.
Setting intentions that way: knowing I am not all things to all people and sad about it.
since we're being honest.

In hopes of being useful,
I live a public life. It's not any weird thing (anymore) to make my thoughts public. In fact, I'm rather coming to depend on it. It's like sending messages in bottles... one word at a time. You'll have to compare notes with someone else if you aren't sure what exactly I'm trying to say.
I would have compared this to sending carrier pigeons but a small bird of prey was busy killing a pigeon in the alley behind our apartment when we left the house yesterday.
If only David Attenborough had been there to explain it to my inner five year old. He wasn't. I nearly tried to save the pigeon. Now all that is left is a scattering of feathers looking like someone tore up a love letter into bits.

So not like a carrier pigeon-endangered by hawk beaks.
Instead, already scattered, but not so much you can't understand what happened (maybe only what is happening).

That is how the prayers are coming and how the intentions are setting.
One word at a time.
and here is the catch:
the larger question is this, what do we do now?
Now that human frailty is more present in the pulpit.
Now that I am finally able to see I wasn't ready to be loved until now.
Now that babies are capable of gratitude.
Now that the words come one at a time and not just to me but from you.

what else can we do?
Even if you don't believe in prayer (how did you ever make it this far in this post?) you probably still roll your eyes (heavenward),
you probably mutter or hope or breathe

and I think that will do.
even if it isn't written, yet, those tiny acts change things. They can set things a right and set them afloat.
Maybe not me, maybe not you, but something. Maybe not ships or kings but words or air.
and just between us, that is all that is needed.