A Living Thing


bethany suckrow -a living thing-3

I’ve had a complicated relationship with prayer for a long time now. Most likely, it started around the time that I realized that ten years of praying for God to heal my mom’s cancer hadn’t come true. I know–that last sentence sounds more like a genie in a bottle, my prayers like desperate scratches at a lottery ticket. It felt more real than that back then. I had strong faith. I believed in God. What else was there for me to do but ask? What else was there for Him to do but answer?


It was a year after she died, a beautiful summer day not long before her birthday. I used my lunch break from work to go meet a friend who worked at a church nearby. She and her husband had been spiritual mentors to me in college, right around the time of another turning point in my mother’s illness. We spent hours praying together over my mother, and I listened to endless stories from them about miracles they’d witnessed or heard from other Christians. The stories ranged from astonishing and hopeful to flat-out weird–an uncle whose gold crown fell out in a prayer service and discovered his broken tooth had been reformed. A group of charismatic congregants that found golf-ball sized rubies in their belongings after a particularly fervent worship service. A dead man who had been violently hijacked on his way home came back to life, thanks to a very vigilant prayer circle. I didn’t know what any of it meant anymore, or what I believed of it, but who was I to say it hadn’t happened?

When I arrived in the expansive church lobby, my friend greeted me with a hug. We shuffled quietly through long carpeted corridors and sunny stained glass windows to a prayer room. We made small talk as we sank into the overstuffed couch.

“So how are you?” she asked. Her kind, questioning eyes scanned my face.

“I’m fine,” I chirped, and in stilted words, tried to explain how spiritually bereft my mother’s death had left me. She nodded and mhmmm-ed often as I rambled on, slowly dissolving into tears and a string of questions–what does it mean that God has a plan for us, if this is how it ends? What is healing? What is blessing? What does it mean that you and I prayed for my mother for so long and he didn’t heal her and now she’s dead? What really happens to us when we die?

Finally I stopped to take a deep breath and wipe my face with a tissue. It occurred to me as she listened quietly and answered nothing that I wasn’t sure why I had come that day. Perhaps I had gone hoping to feel some of that old reassurance I felt when we would pray together, or that heady, electric sense that the Holy Spirit was about to do something wild and inexplicable.

I knew my mother couldn’t be resurrected, but maybe I was hoping that somehow seeing my friend again would resurrect me?

After a long and awkward silence, she asked if she could pray for me.

The words spilled out in that familiar, breathless manner, asking God to please comfort us in our confusion and to give us a sense of His presence and peace. It was all very kind but strangely empty. Maybe this is unfair, but the prayer felt more like a reflexive habit to avoid my questions. I drove back to my office mourning what felt like the death of a charismatic faith that didn’t belong to me anymore. I haven’t seen my friend again, and she hasn’t reached out.


Last spring, I found an old picture of my mother with my eldest cousin, Amy Jo. My mother was a young teenager when Amy was born, so the two of them look very young in it; they could almost be sisters. They’re lying side-by-side on a bed; my mother holds a well-loved copy of Cat in the Hat above them as she reads aloud. When I found it I had just learned that Amy was in the hospital with a life-threatening respiratory infection. They weren’t sure she was going to make it.

I, the recovering evangelical-wannabe-charismatic, the post-everything cynic, didn’t know what to do anymore with the news that someone I love is sick. But the tenderness in the photo called out to me, the love resting there between them so evident and palpable.

I went to bed that night and I didn’t pray, but I imagined my mother lying beside Amy in her hospital bed, reading Cat in the Hat. It felt more real than any prayer I had prayed in a long time. The next day I messaged Amy to tell her about it, and when she was on the mend a few weeks later, she emailed me back to say thank you.


So this is what I do now. Can I really call it praying? At the very least, it’s an act of mindfulness, an intentional moment set aside to hold space for the people I love who are suffering. I imagine myself going to sit beside them. Maybe we share a blanket and a bottle of wine. Maybe I’m in their kitchen, cooking dinner for them while they sit and rest for awhile. Maybe we go and stand on a beach and let out a primal scream together.

In reality, we may only be texting. Everyone I love lives so far away and there’s so much happening that we’ll never be able to fix or control and none of us have much money. But I try to take a moment to quiet my mind and let my imagination do the work.

Love, after all, is a living thing.