All you can do now is pray
“I have tried to convey my concerns to my boss, still nothing changes. All I can do now is pray.”
“Scan results came back. The cancer is spreading again, and every medical option has been exhausted. All I can do now is pray.”
Have you ever attached an all I can do now is pray sentiment at the end of a statement regarding some concern or difficult situation? I have, and, lately, the Holy Spirit has been challenging me about that. Although my all I can do now is pray statement rarely represents the beginning of my situation-specific prayers, all too often, I have unconsciously uttered all I can do now is pray as a sigh of resignation—treating prayer as a last-ditch-effort, a Hail-Mary shot into the endzone when the circumstances reached the point when I possessed neither any control nor other options.
Of course, prayer is not a sigh of resignation but a gift and a privilege and a powerful weapon. When we pray, we stand at the dangerous intersection of heaven and earth. Prayer, especially honest and raw intercession, is daring and costly to the pray-er. For prayer does not deny the presence of the difficulty (in whatever form it takes); prayer confronts it head-on. Accepting the reality of life’s uncertainties and sorrows, we profess God’s goodness and lovingkindness and pledge our trust in him. Recognizing lies, we wrest their strangulating tentacles and affirm truth. Acknowledging pain, we push back despair and declare hope. Moving toward those surrounded by darkness, we sit beside them and insist that no pit is too deep for God’s reach. Staring into brokenness, we remind that the story is still being written and determine to fill the margins with prayer as we wait for the page to turn. Facing death, we refuse to live in its shadow and dare to speak life.
As of late, my practice of prayer has included two intentional components. First, instead of saying, all I can do now is pray, I embrace the gift and privilege of prayer, announcing I get to pray for this! Second, I visualize the reality of what prayer is, that is, standing at the dangerous intersection of heaven and earth—one hand reaching toward God and one hand reaching out to a broken world.
Monica Napoli Warren in a nutshell: Perpetual student. Mediocre triathlete. Lousy cook. Devoted wife to one very patient man. Proud mom of two. Mimi to two. Lives in Mobile, Alabama; wishes Mobile had mountains. Reads lots about Jesus; spends lots of time asking Jesus questions. Goes around speaking of Jesus; hopes she’s starting to look more like Jesus. Her newest addition to “speaking of Jesus” is as a part-time professor, teaching religion at the University of South Alabama.
