prayer | Elizabeth Hagan

God, on this inauguration day we come to you almost breathless.

We have lived through so much that tested us, exhausted us, and called us to action in ways we never would have expected.

We have watched our Muslims friends be barred from entering our country and protests at airports.

We have watched children from Central America taken from their parents and put in cages while law makers turned a blind eye.

We have watched LGTBQ friends have their advocacy agencies taken away and wonder when the next blow will come.

We have watched the rise of white supremacists grow in power and influence bringing terror to cities like Charlottesville.

We have watched the manifestation of systematic racism as beloveds like Briana Taylor and George Floyd were murdered at the hands of the police.

We have watched 400,000+ Americans die as a pandemic fueled by lies and mismanagement.

We have watched our Capitol looted and overtaken by those who wish our democracy harm.

These have been a long 4 years. Very long 4 years.

We have weeped.

We have marched.

We have prayed.

We have lost friends who called us "too political."

We have voted.

And so even though a new president will take the oath of office today that promises to tell the truth and make the bleeding stop, we have full plates of broken hearts.

In our sorrow--

Help us to believe again.

Help us to work together again.

Help us to laugh again.

Help us lean into the hope that this new day brings. We are ready for change, God.

AMEN

Today, October 15th is National Pregnancy and Infant Loss Day.

I'm lighting a candle alongside so many of you for all the children in my life who could have been.

In the deepest points of my pain of child loss and infertility in 2011, I found myself on a plane headed toward Israel on an interfaith pilgrimage.

On the day we visited the Wailing Wall in Jerusalem, the following is the prayer called "I am a Mother" and laid between the cracks in the wall.

Though my grief is not as raw or even present in the same way that it was back then, I am still so thankful for every time I read this prayer I published in my book, Birthed: Finding Grace Through Infertility. For it reminds me that God begins to heals us (though nothing about our situation many change externally), I believe when we're able to truly say what is on our hearts.

Here's my Wailing Wall prayer-

I am a Mother. Yet in my house there are no stray toys rolling around on the floor. There are no sippy cups with apple juice residue piled up by the sink. There are no schedules of what child goes where and when on our refrigerator.

There are no school papers stacked on our kitchen table or science project parts strewn across our countertops. I am not identified in any communities of mothers. I am not invited to forums of mothers who work outside the home.

I’ve never read What to Expect When You Are Expecting, or gone to a play group with girlfriends and their kids. I cringe when I am asked by strangers: “How many kids do you have?” Why? Because I always have to say, “I have none.”

Rather, my home life is as adult-centered as it comes. Almost never do you find my husband and me sitting at the kitchen table at mealtimes. You wouldn’t find child-protective devices on our electrical outlets or wine cabinet doors, nor do we sketch out our weekend activities around nap times or soccer games. And there are empty rooms in our home, two of them. Though we’ve planned big, it is still just the two of us. But, I am a Mother. I have children. But no one sees them.

There are those who have dwelled within me, but decided to take a short, in fact very short, stay. And I wouldn’t have known about them either, except for the signs that pointed to their dwelling. My body spoke of them through exhaustion, nausea, and cravings of unusual foods. Something new had found its way into me, and my heart counted the days and yearned for them to stay, even—just even—for one more day. I loved them, each one of them. And when they were gone, making their way out of me like a disgruntled houseguest, I wept. I cried tears so big they ran from my cheeks to my navel.

They poured like an upstream river out of my being. I didn’t know when or if the intense pain would ever stop. I couldn’t believe that such a good gift could be so cruelly taken so soon. Yet, these children were never gone from my heart. I was still their Mother. Yet, there remain in this time and space children of mine who I do not mother alone. Some have blonde hair, some have dark skin; some are very young, and others are much older than me in years but alone in their own way.

Each is searching for spaces in this crazy world to call their own and for someone to recognize who they really are. They cry out and, even though my own pain sings a loud song, I do hear them. It is my honor to see them. I fiercely want to protect them from any more of life’s deepest pains. I love them and weep for them too—not because their life has gone from me, rather because it has come and stayed close. They have come into my heart and they are now part of me too. Our bond is undeniably good.

So, no, I may never be able to attend the innocence of the average baby shower with other mothers-to-be, or be invited to a mother’s support group, or even be able to talk fully about my mothering pain and joy in public.

I am learning to accept that the gift of mothering I have been given may never be understood by most. And I might never know what physical life coming from my womb is like. Such is the cost of unconventional motherhood: loneliness.

Yet, no matter how I feel or what others say or even what the future may hold for me, there is one thing I know: I am, and will always be, a mother.

If you'd like to read more, check out Birthed here.

Know if days like this are sad for you, my heart is with you. You are not alone.

One of the deepest heartaches for any parent is the loss of a child. No matter if the child was a grown adult, a school aged student or a still-born infant . . . I would even add to this list that there's also great pain in the loss of a child who did not make it out of the womb. Failed fertility treatments leave deep wounds of "What could have been." (With nothing to show for it except drained bank accounts!)

As hearts ache, it seems everything in our world says, "Just move on. Get over it."

But I'm a firm believer in lament.

We can't move on if we don't speak our truth before God first.

Some of the best lamenting is done in communities where the grieving can know they're not alone.

For this reason and may more, today I'm offering a prayer I wrote that is meant to be a resource in congregations to honor children both that are a part of communities and those who have been lost. October is National Infant and Pregnancy Loss month and I'm glad to participate in it. I hope your congregation will too.

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Congregational Prayer in Remembrance of National Pregnancy and Infant Loss Month

God, today we want to thank you for the children who are a part of our community.

For the children that fill our community with laughter, with song and with questions

For the children that teach us in this over scheduled world how to play, how to walk slower, and curiously take in the world’s wonder.

For the children that try our patience one minute but embrace us with joy the next

We say thank you.

But, God for all the children we see and celebrate, we know there are many who we do not.

For the children who filled their parents’ hope muscles with more joy than they ever thought was possible but whose cells did not grow and multiply fast enough.

For the children with names were already spoken aloud and lived in their mother’s wombs 6 weeks, 8 weeks or even just 12 but not any longer.

For the children whose life span could be counted in hours or days but not years.

For the children who were held but whose futures are empty.

We say thank you, God, with tears in our eyes.

For it’s true, our hearts ache for all the moments of what could have been. Our pillows fill with tears of dreams dashed. Our souls overflow with loss beyond what we thought we could bear. But still, today, we want to stop and say thank you God for these children. We acknowledge them. We claim them. And we pray for peace for them and us.

Keep teaching us to welcome all your children in our community of faith.

AMEN

Holy God,

The hearts of so many Americans are breaking today.

A bully with undisciplined tongue-- a man who does not show regard for any who do not look or think exactly like him will be our new President.

(TEARS)

So, today, we'll try to go about our day as normal to give it less power and stay focused on what goodness we can bring to our corners of the world.

But regardless we'll sense what is going on because we're afraid.

We're afraid for the status of our immigrant neighbors as money might be spent building walls not longer tables.

We're afraid that the resurgence of the KKK has not been called out.

We're afraid for the rights of our LBGTQ friends.

We're afraid that the hard conversation about white privilege and racism that we need to be led in as a nation won't happen.

We're afraid for wars that might be started over middle of the night tweets.

Some of our fellow citizens criticize our grief saying:

We're sore losers for a national election with different results as we liked.

We're not simply going with the flow of what is and praying for the best.

We're inspiring fear with our fear.

We respectfully listen. But, we acknowledge where we are and stay the course. To remind ourselves that you, God are always on the side of the stranger, the refugee, and the downtrodden. We want to be where you are!

So, we can not close our eyes and pretend things said and done aren't happening.

Yet we know this: in our heartbroken state, God, you're asking us to move through our grief into action.

You're inviting us to be the change we want to see in the world. Black, brown, gay, straight, Jew, Muslim, and Christian together.

You're teaching us to speak up when false words are spoken.

You're telling us to stand up for the rights of our all neighbors when they're challenged.

You're saying, "Welcome, welcome, and welcome just as I have welcomed you!"

This is a hard path, God in times like this.

But we're committing to stay the course till we've overcome, no matter the cost.

No one is free, till we all are. This is the gospel. We want to be bearers of good news for all people even those who are confused by our heartbreak today.

AMEN

As a child growing up in an evangelical branch of the church, I was taught that prayer was talking to God.

It was right to give thanks to God for food. (God is great. God is good, anyone?)

I was encouraged to pray for those who were going through difficult times. (There's nothing longer than a church prayer list is there?)

I learned that if you didn't confess sin before you prayed then God wouldn't be too happy with you. (I can just hear one of my Sunday School teachers saying: "Confess, confess, confess!")

And, while I learned a lot all through these years of Christian education-- all of the "rules" of prayer seemed to be just that, rules.

I didn't understand why my relationship with God needed to look one way. Did it have anything to do with my particular personality? I wondered.

I took a break from prayer for many years in my 20s.

I know that's not something that preacher types usually share; for they fear it will ruin their holy complex. Well, if you have a holy complex about me, let it go now. I'm just a human being like everyone else.

Sure, I could stand up in church on Sunday mornings and ask God to bless the sick in my congregation, those with troubles in the world and find a way to end with the Lord's Prayer-- but things weren't so intimate with God and me.

I didn't see the point, especially as I walked through difficult situations and nothing about my situation seemed to change . . . (insert forthcoming memoir on infertility here).

But over the last year or two, this has shifted. And I now pray for completely different reasons. My baby steps back toward prayer centered on praying for those I love.

I don't know if you are like me or not, but when I love, I fiercely love.

I love my congregation members if I'm serving a particular church.

I love my husband.

I love my dear kindred friends.

I love those that find a way to intersect my life in unique ways.

And for me, sometimes, it is hard to know what to do with that love. I truly want the best for them. I want to see them thrive. I want life to be as good to them as it possibly can. However, there comes a time when relationally I have done or can do all I can, but yet my heart isn't at peace for them. So I pray. I find joy in giving those I love to God.

And, so I've learned to pray-- love by praying. To ask God, who I believe is the divine parent of us all-- to watch over those I know are in need of peace, support or wisdom.

A funny thing has happened to me along the way. I have found myself wanting to pray more. It's no longer a chore. It's a sweetness in my day. It has become a relationship between God and my community.

While many might think, it's shallow-- to just pray for people who you love-- I say, don't judge too quickly. In getting the conversation going again, God has come near to me in other ways. I'm beginning to get back to all the other stuff too like "Oh, God I have fallen short of your best for me in this way" or "Oh, God bless those in need in far away places" or "God bless so and so who really annoys me."

So, why do I pray now?

I pray out of relationship. Sometimes there's lots of talking. Other times there's not.

But, like any relationship I know a spiritual life has ebbs and flows. But prayer is the conversation starter.

This is what I know for sure: I am a creation of the great Creator who loves me. I want to grow to love God more. So I learn to pray.

Why do you pray?

Our hearts are overwhelmed this morning as we woke to the news of another act of terror. Another mass attack. Another senseless taking of lives. How can it be?