In the movie classic It’s a Wonderful Life, prayer changes things. In the opening scene, people are praying for George Bailey. He’s in trouble. He needs help. People pray. Help shows up.
What is prayer? How does it work? Does it work? Does it matter?
These were all questions on my mind early this morning as I looked back over the past week, when prayers were going out from every corner of a few different necks of the woods for a little boy waiting to find out what school he would be going to. His parents thought they knew which one. He thought he knew which one. Everyone was gearing up for this milestone step, and they were so excited. So ready. So prepared. It was exactly what they had hoped for when they put his name in the lottery for this particular public school. Showing up on Monday for Slow Start, a day for incoming kindergarten students, everyone had a name tag. Except for him. Everyone was expected. Except for him. A system glitch had registered him in first grade instead of kindergarten, and there was no room to add another student. Period. End of story. He would have to go somewhere else.
Needless to say, it was rough. Devastating, actually. A lot of thought had gone into why this school, for this boy, was the best. Plans had been made with this school in mind, and all of a sudden those plans evaporated, and they were all left in the limbo lurch. His parents felt that familiar conglomeration that we all know. They were mad/sad/afraid/anxious, wanting only what was best for their kiddo, but having few options within their control. Changing his registration was, they were told by the school he wasn’t going to be able to go to, a cumbersome and arduous. process, especially this late in the new school year game. They offered to handle that process for him, and would let them know where their ready-for-kindergarten boy would be going. There was nothing for them to do but wait. And waiting is the worst.
But oh, wait, there was one thing to do. Pray.
The prayer was a simple one. Often times just one word. His name. So many people were praying. Family, friends, friends of friends, and even strangers. If God had an old-timey switchboard, God’s system would have been flooded with calls. Every call that same one word. His name. I don’t know if God got tired of all those calls, heard all those calls, did a holy happy dance for all of those calls, or was busy on other calls, but somehow, something happened. At the very last minute at the very end of the very last day before the first day of kindergarten, they found out that somehow, someway, room was made for him in that school.
Was that one word—his name— a prayer? Were the tears shed a prayer? Were the middle of the night worries a prayer? Were the swear words, guttural screams, and shaken fists a prayer? Was the candle on my altar a prayer? The run by the lake, the safe space of a friendship, that first cup of coffee when the house is quiet, the sweat in the sauna and the gasp into the cold plunge? The words of many mouths and the meditations of many hearts? Were they all prayers? Were none of them prayers? Does prayer always work the way we hope? If it doesn’t, what does that mean?
So, I’m back where I started with my early morning thoughts. What is prayer? How does it work? Does it work? Does it matter?
Having been a pray-er for as long as I can remember, I have my suspicions. But I can’t answer any of those questions for sure, and honestly, neither can anyone else. Not really. Not definitively. Prayer is nothing if not a mystery. Which seems to me, exactly as it should be.
All I know is this. A little boy was in trouble. He needed help. People prayed. Help showed up.
Amen.
