Be Held by Hope

On Centering Prayer, Mary, and why the older I get, the less stodgy I become.

Dear Friend,

When I was little, my grandpa’s house was a refuge. I grew up across the street from him, so near that from our living room we could see through the glass of his sliding kitchen door, stooped over a table playing infinite games of solitaire. That door was an escape hatch from the fear that was my constant companion. Inside, I could stop running from the bully who lived down the hallway from me. 

Grandpa would always set down his cards and the rosary he had wrapped around his hand to greet me with some fig newtons or an apple fritter, delicacies that to this day are melded in my memory with the scent of the sauerkraut that was always simmering in an open pot on his stove. I’d eat my treat while he laid cards on the table, relaxing into the silence of a safe place. 

Decades removed from that quiet assurance, I started learning to allow silence to grow safety within me again. In the rhythm of a centering prayer practice, my roots sink deep beside a stream that nourishes me to stand tall amid all the storms I cannot understand. 

None of us consented to be born into stories where fear would hunt and track us like prey in the woods. 

I did not consent to the hands that held me down.

I did not consent to the trauma that sunk its teeth into the tissues between my bones.

None of us consented to live through a year of mass death and disease. 

But in centering prayer, I consent to being held.

In the quiet of my study, I sink into the cushions of my couch, and with hands wrapped around a steaming mug of black coffee, I embrace the One who embraces me. 

“Living Life and Sustaining Love,” I pray, “Help me feel your attracting grace in the universe, which keeps everything from coming apart. May the Word of Christ hold me together with wisdom and love. I give thanks for your Word and consent to being held by it, so to remain at center with you.” (A prayer from Peter Traben Haas, echoing one of my favorite passages, Colossians 1:15-20) 

And then, with eyes closed, I settle into the presence of the God who holds me. When my thoughts wander to all the things I need to do, the people I’m pissed at, or the doubt that praying even matters, I just repeat Held. I gently anchor my wandering mind in the reality that is both my greatest longing and truest truth: I am held by the One through whom this world was breathed into existence, by whom every atom pulses with life, and in whom every unwelcome assault of sin is being absorbed into redemption.

Held.

Held.

Held.

This is the safe place where I can stop running from the bully of fear. In the silence, with nothing to offer God but my breath and body, my nervous system learns the rhythm of being a beloved child of God. 

It is not magic. I do not well up with joy every time I set down productivity and pick up attentive prayer. But, day by day, my body is acclimating to receive a love I cannot earn. Minute by minute, my whole self is adjusting to the reality that God has not left me alone. 

Evangelicals forfeited so much hope when they decided to relate to rituals and liturgy as suspects in a plot to make salvation our own accomplishment. We replaced rhythms of relationship with striving and self-evaluation. If you don’t spend enough time in devotions or “quiet time,” you probably wonder if God’s upset with you. 

Give me a place to kneel. Steady my trembling hands on beads of prayer. Still my pounding heart in deep breaths of silence. The gospel becomes tangible when I receive it bodily.

All of my unanswerable questions about the harm I never consented to receive shape my body into a question marked curve of curiosity. I slouch into the chest of a God who consented to be harmed in order to heal me.

It’s a hope that can only rise from the ground up.

Trauma-informed therapists know from neuroscience insights about how God created us that we must work to heal from the bottom up. Our minds can only receive God as kind and good when we repeatedly place our bodies into new rhythms of regulation and attunement. Practices like centering prayer give our nervous systems a space to practice feeling safe in the presence of God. Silent prayer gives our bodies room to learn to relate to God from a place of secure connection rather than a sympathetic state of stress (fighting to get God’s attention or fleeing because we feel ashamed to be seen) or a dorsal vagal state of disconnection (freezing in a sense of God’s absence and avoiding even trying to connect). We learn to relax into the love of God from the body up, not the other way around.

My mind cannot fathom the hope of a God who always holds me, but my body can begin to absorb that this is true.

My Grandpa Markovich was a man of few words, but it is only now that I am realizing he was also a man of steady prayer. My Presbyterian family turned up our noses at his rosary, but now I smell the fruit of consent. Grandpa was the son of a Croatian immigrant. He was in the 8th grade when his dad died in a mine in Northern Michigan, and he never returned to school because he was too busy working to keep his family fed. At 21 years old, he stormed Omaha beach on D-Day. 

I’ve stepped off the path of certainty, forced around the roadblocks of suffering, into an embodied faith expressed in quiet consent to Love meeting me where I don’t want to be. I can’t help but trace similar lines of acceptance in the rosary wrapped around my Grandpa’s battle-worn hands. He suffered great evil, but he held hope daily in his hands.

As a cradle protestant, I judged my Grandpa’s Hail Marys as something akin to idol worship. Now, in silent prayer, I hear the ancient hope of saints in Mary’s stead, consenting beyond comprehension to let the life of God be born in us:

“Let it be to me according to your word.”

(Luke 1:38, ESV)

Upheld by the mystery of God-with-us,

KJ

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Many of you have asked for a primer on centering prayer, but it’s simpler than I think most of you would like it to be.* ;)

1. Sit in a quiet, comfortable place. Sitting up is preferable, but if that’s too painful, you can lie on the floor.

2. Choose a sacred word to anchor your wandering mind. Mine is Held, but whatever comes to your mind will do. This word is a symbol of your intention to consent to God’s embrace. (I love that. Our God isn’t a tyrant. He constantly seeks us, but he lets us consent to receive him.)

3. Close your eyes, settle into your seat, and silently introduce your sacred word.

4. When thoughts rise up or pain shouts at you, gently return to your sacred word. (Especially with physical pain or emotional pain, I view my sacred word as a gentle acknowledgment from both me and God. God sees me. God hears me.)

5. At the end of your prayer time, linger in silence for a few moments before getting up.

I use the Centering Prayer app because it has an adjustable timer that doesn’t make me jump out of my skin. It also includes some beautiful prayers like the one above that can ground your time in truth. Start with 5-10 minutes and work your way up from there. Daily is best.

*if silent contemplative prayer feels too triggering for you, I suggest incorporating the gentle meditation suggestions in this Instagram post.

The hard part is doing it—building a habit of heart to receive silence as a gift, trusting God is doing more within us than we can sense.

You’ll learn to trust—by practicing showing up.

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P.S. My publisher would probably be a little mad if I didn’t tell you that my book is on major sale this week. Just $3.99 for the kindle edition and $9.50 for the paperback (along with some other great titles!). Maybe a Christmas present for yourself? Also, my fave professional-nerd tip is that you can send ebooks to friends as gifts.

P.P.S. Say hello in a comment. How’d this letter resonate with you? I’d also love to hear: what’s giving you hope in this season?

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