Mercy

After answering a questionnaire grading ourselves on how well we showed mercy to different people in different situations, I felt called to pray about mercy this week in adoration. I have often felt God speak to me through 'Praying with Color' and this was no exception.

I began writing the word 'Mercy' surrounded by a heart. Through our Year of Mercy meetings and the book for the Worldwide Meeting of Families, I have been shown that love is the key to mercy. But I feel sometimes that while I show Mercy on the outside (yellow and orange lines), there is a wall on the inside preventing me from feeling Merciful to others (faint gray line inside the red heart).

I thought this was how I was being called to work on being Merciful, by showing it to others. But God spoke to me, telling me the wall works both ways. If I put up a wall, I'm not only keeping Mercy from flowing to others, I'm also keeping myself from fully receiving God's Mercy.

Surely not! I thought. I accept God's Love and Mercy. I always have. I'm not keeping Him out of my heart.

Just then someone banged on the side door to the adoration chapel, the one no one ever uses or opens. But no one came in.

 I hung my head in shame, knowing it was a sign from God that He was at the door to my heart, knocking, waiting for me to open it so He could fill my heart with His Mercy. Somewhere along the way, I had let the door close. I been less merciful towards others, and in turn prevented myself from fully receiving God's Mercy.

So while I started my prayer seeking for ways to be merciful towards others, I ended it by asking God to help me receive His Mercy more fully.

 

 

 

 

Note: The brown lines are a sign of God's Mercy flowing into the heart (mirroring the orange and yellow pouring out), then spiraling around, because He was showing me His Mercy and Love is for every part of our hearts/lives, even parts we want to hide or think are not worthy. I slowly started coloring the green with a prayer that I may accept his Mercy in my heart. I have accepted it in my mind, but now it must be felt in my heart.

Here is the Prayer (Catholic All Year & Mothering Spirit)

Here Is The Prayer

I stir in the dark before dawn. Black trees outlined through our windows slowly sharpen into focus as the sky lightens into blue behind them. I slip between sleep and waking, but reluctantly leave the dreams behind for good. I think of turning towards the prayer book on the nightstand and resting my eyes on a morning psalm.Then the baby starts to rouse.Gentle at first, waking as I am, but soon more insistent, his coos rising to cries on the monitor. I slide out from under the warm comforter and pad down the hall to scoop him up, snuggling his fleece covered limbs into the curl of my chest. All I can see in the dim nursery light is his smile.I forget about the morning litany waiting back on my nightstand. Here is the prayer.

. . .

We laugh in low voices as he get dressed for work. The big kids are still sleeping, and as I splash my face with warm water, I contemplate the sweet prospect of a quiet kitchen and a hot cup of tea. Maybe I could pull out my journal and write for a bit before they wake. I slip on thick wool socks for the cold winter floors downstairs and turn the knob on our bedroom door.Then I find a small boy waiting right outside, gazing up at me with wide eyes.I sink to my knees and without a word he folds himself into my lap, clutching his beloved stuffed animal to his chest. We snuggle in the silence for a few minutes, and then he whispers, “Mama, sing ‘Morning Has Broken.’”I forget about the journal downstairs. Here is the prayer.

. . .

The morning tumbles headlong into a cacophony of kid sounds: laughter and whining and cries and squeals. So many questions and complaints and requests to help, to watch, to get, to come here please.My head is spinning by noon, and I’m dreaming of naptime quiet and a chance to center my thoughts. I serve their lunch plates piled high with favorite food, and as I sink into my own chair, I’m tempted to tune out while they eat.Then I see their small faces in front of me, watching me expectantly.I take a deep breath and smile back. I lean my elbows onto the table and ask them each what they want to do after nap. Soon we’re sharing silly rhymes and they’re teasing each other with nicknames. We share cookies after plates are cleaned, and I give silent thanks for the gift of lively kids at my table.I forget about the centering meditation. Here is the prayer.

. . .

Bathtime always finds my energy at its lowest. Bedtime is teasing, just around the corner, but there are faces to wash and teeth to brush and nails to clip and pajamas to tug on tiny feet.

I pray for patience as I wrangle the wriggling, giggling boys into the bath. I can almost taste the freedom that comes with closing the last bedroom door. I imagine curling up on the couch with the warm dog burrowed at my feet and a good book to lift my thoughts.Then they start to splash each other with shouts and smiles.I can’t help but laugh at their simple delights. The water splatters the walls and soaks my jeans, but their mischievous grins make it all worth it. I remember that this was what we wanted all along – a house brimming with life and laughter.I forget about the devotional downstairs. Here is the prayer.

. . .

Maybe the secret to prayer with small children is not memorizing the Our Father or teaching them grace before meals or pulling them to church on Sunday.Maybe prayer is about abiding. About presence. About seeing God in small moments.The promise we make to our children echoes Jesus’ words of love: And behold, I am with you always, until the end of the age.Maybe the prayer we teach them – the practice of God’s presence that we hope will sustain their lives – can be exactly this, too.

Prayer as beholding. Prayer as presence. Prayer as promise.

. . .

After books and lullabies and God-bless-everyone, I linger a few last minutes in the rocking chair with the baby who woke up just as the older two were winding down. His tiny head tucks under my chin as we rock gently, and I savor the sweetness of a baby in my arms. In the dim glow of the nightlight, his pudgy fingers float up to trace my hair. He turns to me with dark eyes smiling.

Finally I glimpse the whole truth, the God-soaked-ness of each moment with them today.

Finally I am here. God is here, too. Here is the prayer.

A version of this reflection originally appeared at Practicing Families. 

https://motheringspirit.wordpress.com/2015/02/09/here-is-the-prayer-2/