When prayers become short

God still hears them

I’ve got to write about the last 48 hours. They were unbelievably difficult, but I’m now in the place of finding hope, and whenever I receive a grace from God like that, I understand it’s meant to be shared around.

Because of some ongoing health concerns which had gotten really intense recently, I reached out far and wide for prayers, including to my friend Zina Gomez-Liss, one of my writing friends who introduced me to Substack. The message was through text. I didn’t have the energy to explain everything, but updated her a little, ending with, “Prayer becomes short.” Zina is a poet, so I knew she’d likely get what I meant right away. But, having typed those three words, they kind of haunted me. And I knew she knew, because she added a sad emoticon to my message. She knew, because she, too. has many everyday challenges, and it’s likely that at times her prayers have become short too. (Please keep Zina and her family in prayer.)

Prayer becomes short

Short like poetry. Short like when you can’t even remember what comes next on your Rosary beads. Short like sitting in the Adoration chapel, which used to be such a solace, and not being able to finish one small page of journaling before closing the little book and saying, “I just can’t, Lord. I’m sorry. I’m just gonna sit here and know you’re here with me. That’s it. That’s my agenda for this next hour.”

Photo by Maria Oswalt on Unsplash

I never realized how hard praying could be. It should be simple, but when you’ve got a kidney stone lodged inside of you wreaking havoc, and you don’t yet know the little buggar is WHY you’ve been so miserable, prayer can seem impossible. I could barely read what I needed to for work, and despite having a list of books nearby that have been begging to be read for pleasure, even that proved futile.

I simply couldn’t distract myself for long, and apparently that’s what happens when a foreign agent is traveling through your body, escaping the radar, gleefully taking over.

I’ve spent the last three months living with this small stone (6 mm) and it practically ruined me. Last time I talked here about it was after the fact, when everyone, including me, assumed it was no longer an issue. I was at a safe distance. But I know how things can explode on the Internet, so I stayed mostly quiet about it.

Meanwhile, we (the medical community and I ) were chasing down other possible causes of the discomfort, not knowing Mr. Stone was having a blast at my expense.

But on Tuesday night, that was it. I do think God said, “You’ve done enough. Now get outta here.” God knew, and every time I cried out to him, “Please help. Please,” I would not hear much back. I knew he was with me, but why did I have to suffer like this? It took me down a dark path at times, and only my closest friends geographically could see it: the strain on my face, and the expressions of agony. They knew it wasn’t fabricated. They just listened, taking on some of that suffering by offering gentle, commiserating words and gestures.

Photo by Alex Sheldon on Unsplash

I was with one of those friends Tuesday night. We hadn’t seen each other in a while, so we met for dinner. I braved it because it would have been easier to stay home and remain in my misery, but she coaxed me out, and I was glad. We finished our conversation in my car because, by then, the little restaurant had gotten extremely busy and noisy. So it happened there in my car, with her in the passenger side of my SUV, that I offered a fuller update of my last three months. As we talked, we watched many sad souls coming out of the bar next door. And yet, we were able to focus, share and listen. And she did so with utmost compassion. She didn’t realize I would need that look of love on her face to get me through the next agonizing hours.

But at some point, I abruptly said, “I think I need to go home now,” cutting off the end of our conversation. Just an hour or so later, the foreigner stone began dancing around my swollen innards—a last dance, you might say.

God hears our prayers, and even when they come in brief segments in between suffering, he collects them, adding to those offered by others out of a collective desperation.

“Something isn’t right,” I told my husband shortly after arriving back home. By this point, I couldn’t even rest on my bed comfortably. It was scary. I knew I wouldn’t make it through the night. And yes, I now believe those who’ve said a kidney stone is worse than childbearing. I would have a baby any day over what I experienced that night, waiting for two hours in the Emergency Room to be helped. It was filled with others needing help, and I’m sure some thought I was a crazy woman, because I could..not..stay…still.

Photo by Tao Yuan on Unsplash

So, I had to walk and pace in front of the other patients. I was tempted to be mortified, but by then, I mostly didn’t care. Little mattered but the thought that if I could just get through those ER doors, people would be waiting to help me. I knew there were pain killers that could relieve me temporarily, and hopefully, they would find the cause of my frantic movements.

“That is exactly what we would find in someone dealing with a kidney stone,” the doctor on call told me as he met us in the interior room, which we’d finally accessed. “We’re going to get some pain meds in you and then we’ll do a CT scan and see what’s causing this.”

It was not only a kidney stone, but likely THE kidney stone that I wrote about in February. Apparently, it had gone into hiding. And for almost three months, everything in that region of my body was reacting to it, immobolizing me for the most part. I quit accepting most invitations to be in public, unless I had no other choice. As a result, my life was becoming exceedingly confined.

But that collection of prayers finally reached God’s heart, and when the new scan showed, yep, there it was. Instead of sending me home like last time, though, they decided to wait and see if it would drop on its own. Hours later, nope! It was still with me, and I was given a new option: to have surgery to remove the stone. I had to make the decision quickly.

Photo by Artur Tumasjan on Unsplash

Normally, I don’t think I would have opted for surgery, but since I’d already done the “wait and see” at home without relief, this seemed the only logical option. A few hours later, they were wheeling me down to surgery in my hospital bed and gown, and not long after I hit the surgical room, I was out, remembering only waking in the first recovery room with other patients. A man nearby was wailing in pain still. I waited to feel my own pain, but it didn’t come. I couldn’t believe it. It seemed like I was freed!

I’m someone who can take nearly any kind of suffering as long as I know there’s a higher purpose for it. If not, it’s just useless suffering. While I did have the presence of mind to “offer up” my extreme pain for others’ sufferings, even those calls out were quick and limited. I’d told my car friend that God had seemed far away recently. “No, he’s closer than ever.” And I knew she was right, and decided to trust that. Just hours later, I felt him exceedingly close while being wheeled back to my new room post-surgery.

Once I made it past the wretched waiting room, I was so well cared for that my frustration from those two hours prior seemed to disappear at the hands and voices of the skilled and gracious medical staff, who brought the most hope I’d felt in a very long time.

Thanks be to God, doc got that buggar out with a clamp and a pull. There was no need to laser it and risk having little particles remaining. He got it all out and sent it into the lab to test what might have caused it.

We came home only about 24 hours ago, and I am still in disbelief over the trauma of just a couple nights back, and that which I’d been holding in as well as possible for the preceding three months. Before today, I could hardly look ahead a day, because I didn’t know how I’d be feeling in a day or week or month. I quit dreaming, and again, could barely pray.

“Thank you, Lord, for your mercy and relief.” This has been my line all day as I’ve settled back home to rest and restore. I think God knew I would not be able to bear a minute more. It may be, too, that the healing hands of another friend who prayed over me a week prior had prompted God’s healing actions. She was direct in asking that my issues be diminished. I can’t imagine her trusting in God in so wild a way could not push him toward deciding that, yes, it’s time to expose the source.

Photo by Rod Long on Unsplash

I’ve now experienced a new level of suffering. If God allowed this so that I would better understand others who are suffering long and can’t pray but short, well, he’s onto something, because I’m certain I’ll be able to summon more compassion in the future than I could have previously.

I didn’t deserve to come out of that harrowing experience before others, who are still suffering. But now that I am more aware, you can bet that if I am put in the care of someone suffering as I had been, I will be better at being Jesus to them as my friend was to me Tuesday night, and as were the other friends adding to my lament, helping to get God’s rapt attention.

I didn’t deserve being freed, but God loved me through it. And unbelievably, I never doubted that his will was best. His ways are higher than mine. I just didn’t trust my ability or will to withstand much more. I was the weak link in this scenario.

But today, I managed a smile while reading the Magnificat, from 1 Cor. 10:13: “No trial has come to you but what is human. God is faithful and will not let you be tried beyond your strength, but with the trial he will also provide a way out, so that you may be able to bear it.” Amen!

1 Cor. 10:13: “No trial has come to you but what is human. God is faithful and will not let you be tried beyond your strength, but with the trial he will also provide a way out, so that you may be able to bear it.”

Today has been all about recovery and gratitude, going slow, and praying a little longer. It feels good. It feels miraculous. I’ve been given, for now, a second lease on life, thanks be to God.

When were you healed? Do you sometimes ‘pray short’ in times of suffering?

My work this week:

May 6: Family ties run deeper than we often realize (column)