I have a small, cloth-covered journal in which I write down prayers. Some I come across in books or liturgies; others are my own. A few years ago, when my children were going through serious health crises and life felt bleak, I wrote this prayer: “God, I am here. You are here. Amen.”
For months, it was the only prayer I prayed—the only prayer I could pray. I couldn’t say “thank you” and mean it. I couldn’t say “help,” because I was tired of asking for help. I didn’t feel capable of awe or reverence. The only honest prayer I could make was a prayer of bare-bones presence, mine and God’s.
I returned to this prayer of presence recently as I prepared to co-teach a session on Benedictine spirituality at a church retreat. My assignment was to reflect on the vow of stability—that is, the vow of community and continuity that Benedictines make to a particular monastery. Unless a monastic is specifically sent somewhere else by her superiors, she remains in the monastery of her profession her entire life. A monk vows to stay put, to grow where he is planted.
