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Pamela J. Tinnin

The year I turned forty, I spent my birthday at a three-day women's retreat. The retreat was held at a Catholic boarding school. None of us knew each other, so it was a bit awkward that first night, especially when it came time for bed -- six women, all ages, sleeping in the narrow cots of a dorm room.

By the second night, after a day of study groups, worship and prayer, silly skits and games, and eating three meals together, we were old friends. It was more like the slumber parties I remembered from high school -- lots of giggling and whispering long after "lights out." After a while the voices faded away one by one, until the room was quiet except for the sound of soft snoring.

I lay awake a long time, thinking about the events of the day -- the sight of eighty women, all ages, shapes, and sizes, trying to hold balloons between their knees as they raced, or more accurately stumbled, to the finish line; the words of every old camp song I'd ever learned sung by eighty adult female voices of every description; the flicker of a hundred candles in a darkened chapel, the light gleaming on the bowed heads around me.

In those three days, we prayed a lot in groups, the prayer moving from one to another around the circle. The retreat leaders prayed for us, sometimes with tears on their faces. We even had a midnight prayer walk, each of us holding the hand of the person ahead and behind, with only the team leaders holding a flashlight. I tried to concentrate, to "clear" my mind and heart and reach out to God with fervent words, but all I could do was concentrate on not falling, wondering what the dark shadows were and where the path would take us.

Prayer has never come easily for me, public prayer in particular. Instead of just speaking from the heart, sometimes I get hung up on whether I'm going to sound stupid, or whether my prayer is going to be "good enough." In fact, I usually write out a public prayer rather than risk making a mistake, saying "the wrong thing."

However, not long ago, I learned something important about prayer. I was at the local hospital visiting a church member, an elderly man who was there following surgery for a broken leg. I saw a young man in a wheelchair, so thin his face wasn't more than a skull with skin stretched tight and marked with numerous small bruises. I'd seen him before over the past few years, enough that I smile and nod and he does the same. He had never spoken, but I couldn't help notice that each time I saw him, he was thinner, his eyes sunken deeper in dark circles, his bony hands trembling more and more.

This time he reached out and touched my arm. "You're a pastor, aren't you?" he asked me, his voice a husky whisper. "The lady at the counter told me -- my name's Robby."

"Yes," I answered, telling him my name and that I was from Partridge Community Church.

"I'd like you to pray for me," he said, his words coming out slow and awkward. "I'd surely appreciate it. I wouldn't bother you, but ... see, I've ... I've got AIDS ... don't have much time left."

Not knowing what to say, I looked around. I think I was hoping for some other pastor to come along, someone to bail me out, someone who could pray eloquently and powerfully. There was only a young woman pushing a cart stacked with meal trays, a gray-haired couple who got off the elevator laughing at some private joke ... and me.

My own voice took me by surprise. "Yes, Robby, I'll pray for you." And I did -- right there in the hallway. I leaned in close so he'd have no trouble hearing, put my arm around his shoulder, took a deep breath, and prayed that the right words would come. I thanked God for loving Robby, for being there to help him not be afraid. I asked that Robby be forgiven for any sins and that he be able to forgive anyone who had hurt him in his life. I prayed that Robby would find comfort and feel at peace in the hard days that lay ahead of him.

I don't know how long we stayed there, our heads bowed, then I said, "In the name of the Risen Christ, Amen." When I looked up, there was the young woman who had passed by earlier. She stood against the wall next to the stainless steel cart, her head bowed. When she opened her eyes, she smiled at us, mouthed the word "thanks," then patted Robby's knee and pushed the cart into the waiting elevator. Tears were streaming down Robby's face even though his eyes were shining and he was smiling this enormous smile.

Last week Robby's mother, whom he hadn't seen in nearly ten years, came to take him home to Texas. I pray that whatever time they have will be blessed.

Like that prayer walk I took some fifteen years ago, at times our lives can follow dark and shadowed paths to places unknown. The only light may seem far away and out of reach. But, like I told that young man in the wheelchair, there isn't one of us who isn't a beloved child of God -- beloved. When we pray, there are no mistakes, no way to "say the wrong thing." In fact, if we can't find words, we can just wait without speaking, assured that the One who loves us can hear the silent yearnings of our hearts.