Events of this past week have shaken me, including violence and mass shootings in southern California and the Bay Area, deaths in Jerusalem, and then the horrific killing of Tyre Nichols on January 7 in Memphis which came to light when a video of his violent death was released on Friday. I had to pause multiple times and re-read articles because I was afraid that my mind was simply going to forget and move on. Perhaps out of defense; perhaps from being numb. I returned repeatedly to the news, albeit reluctantly, with the voice in my head saying, “focus on the good things … don’t dwell in the evil.” And while I do try to live optimistically and I do try to look for the things to celebrate, I’ve grown more and more convinced that as Christians we are called to find ourselves dwelling where Christ would dwell.

When I was a young child I remember sitting at the kitchen table with my Aunt Helen while she was quietly praying. It was well after my bedtime and she had been up since well before the sun rose. I knew this because when we would stay at her house I slept on an old army cot in the living room and I would hear the shuffle of her slippers in the dark of the early morning as she made her way to the kitchen with a stop at the front door to retrieve the newspaper from the porch.

Late at night at the kitchen table Aunt Helen was tired. Her hair was disheveled. Her shoulders were slumped and her stockinged feet were slipped free from her flats with her legs stretched forward and crossed at the ankles. The sound of her breathing was in that mysterious place between contentment and exhaustion.

Aunt Helen did not say much to me about her prayers as we sat at the kitchen table, but I knew two things. When she prayed she had the newspaper and her address book in front of her.

Aunt Helen would scan through the already-read newspaper pausing silently periodically with her fingers gliding over certain articles, gliding her fingers over the ink and almost massaging the letters.

In the morning Aunt Helen had marked up the newspaper taking note of certain stories. Now, at the end of the day, she visited those stories again.
She paused on stories of pain.
She paused on stories of sorrow.
She paused on stories of despair. She paused. She paused and she prayed.
She’d fold up the newspaper and move to her address book – filled with names and notes about those she loved.

Aunt Helen told me one time to pray without ceasing. I didn’t understand what this meant at the time – or that she was quoting scripture when she said it. I never asked Aunt Helen why she spent time with her address book or that newspaper – why she paused moving her fingers back and forth over a name – why she tapped her fingers sometimes with a smile on her face.

I never asked Aunt Helen what was on her heart.

But as I would sit with her while she was praying, I could see the effects of prayer and the long day on her as she rubbed her eyes, sighed, smiled, cried – indeed, as she prayed.

As a pastor, I want to have answers to the violence of the world. From a theological perspective, I certainly have thoughts about God’s presence in the midst of a world where terrible things happen. But even more so, as that young child shaped by a strong woman of faith, I find the strongest and most compelling movement and answer comes when we are willing, day in and day out, to confront the pain of the world. To choose to not ignore the difficult realities of the world, and then, humbly, in our exhaustion and sorrow, to pray. And may our prayer lead us to action in a world that so very much needs it.