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Praying my way into the mystery

Sometimes I feel like a bit of diamond dust trying to find its way back to the stone. It's as if I am part of something I have yet to name, something that will help explain

what I'm doing here, what I am, and how best to spend my time. I read once that the journey is more important than the destination. I hope that isn't true. So far the trip has been

uphill all the way. Prayer has been my only respite. That door always leads to lush valleys where a peace more delicious than sleep waits for the taking. Somehow, each amen finds me back

on the mountain, digging in with my toes, pulling myself up the rock one fingerhold at a time. Sometimes I think the best way to demonstrate my faith would be to let go, to see if the eagle

wings of the Spirit will pick me up and carry me to the top of the mountain. Maybe I would find my own burning bush there, and maybe nothing more than the remnants of an ark and a note telling me to follow the long trail back down the mountain

to the garden below. Would it help if I could learn to pray without ceasing? I'd have more luck trying to sing with my toes. Dare I tell you that my bag of doubts is bigger than my vocabulary?

I drag it into every prayer I enter. Sometimes I use it to stand on. I can't balance there for long, but when I do—for those few seconds—I can see a light shining, and hear a voice calling my name.

—Fredrick Zydek

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