Each morning you are prayed for.
As you straighten crooked legs with your bare hands, wrangle kids in classrooms, care for sick loved ones, think bright thoughts in universities (or write reports for the administration). We pray for the men working with difficult men, the people who build stuff and the people who build the stuff that builds the stuff. We pray for mums (always with mercy) remembering how hard it is to juggle when the balls squeal if you drop them). We pray for bankers. The managers have hard calls to make. Some of us sit in surgeries with masks on. We pray for our nurses (God loves nurses!). We pray through your names and your work.
I knew a guy whose name was Barry. He worked in gardens. The Sydney Botanical Garden was one of them. He had a green thumb and a big singing voice. Half his face was paralysed by a stroke when he was still quite young. I knew him when I was young and he was old, and that face seemed like it had been set that way forever. For a long time his face made me afraid. I grew up eventually. I saw his work in gardens everywhere - Sydney, Adelaide, Wagga. All the big towns.
When my beloved great-aunt recently died, his dear friend, I inherited a book of poems he wrote. I had no idea how fertile his mind was. He wasn’t all thumbs. Rows and rows of well-arranged words. One of them is a prayer that we prayed for you today. Push through to the end - it’ll be worth it.
On this rocky hill, O Lord, I see your hand,
Even in the smallest things you have made.
The whitened tree reaching up to the heavens,
Are alike with me, in prayer.
How often have I soared across low valleys,
Upswept as eagles on the wind.
And there is wonder stilled with praise
Which has made me cry, how great is God
And his almighty works.
I will walk this way again,
Yes, I will climb again this hill of God.
And I will go down calmly,
To work in the city.
You are my strength and my song,
And all my works shall praise your name.
This is what we prayed for you, today.