Interruptions in my prayer time. It’s so hard to see them as part of my prayer life, until I get bonked over the head or shaken by the shoulders.
Today I dashed down the stairs to the subway train, gym bag in hand, ready to settle down for my usual contemplation time.
The train barreled through the tunnel, I rushed to the door and almost ducked when I saw a neighbor. One of the Little League dads. Hadn’t seen him in years. Sure, it would be great to catch up, find out how he’s doing, but this time was sacred. I was looking forward to closing out. Praying, not talking.
“Hi, Rick,” he said to me. Too late. I couldn’t pretend I didn’t see him. I sat down, my battered pocket Bible buried in my gym bag, and instead of praying for the next 20 minutes, we talked. Turned out today was his last day at work. He was retiring after 34 years as a teacher. He was headed downtown to hand in his papers.
He had a lot on his mind. Concerns about family members. What he was going to do for the next stage of his life. Where he’d live. By the end of the trip I knew that listening to him was probably the most important thing I would do all day. I thought of something I’d just read by Joan Chittister, a Benedictine nun: “Sitting in contemplation, in prayer, is certainly a necessary part of the development of a life in prayer. But it is not the end; it is simply the means.”
I gave him a recommendation of a small group he might want to join. He scribbled the info down on a paperback thriller he was reading, then at the 59th Street station we parted ways.
There will be other chances for contemplation. But that moment the best use of my prayer time was to talk to him.
