I came into the garden looking for the words.
I thought perhaps Francis would know them.
But Francis was listening.
So I waited.
Across the garden sat others who had come by different paths.
One spoke of the heart.
One of surrender.
One of devotion.
One of service.
One of stillness.
One reminded me that prayer without action leaves suffering untouched.
Another seemed to say nothing at all.
Different centuries.
Different names for the Divine.
Different understandings of what happens when a human being prays.
And still, beneath their differences, I began to hear something.
Prayer was here before the words.
Before theology named it.
Before traditions organized it.
Before anyone decided there was a correct way to speak to God.
There was the mother holding her child.
The frightened person asking for courage.
The grieving person whispering a name.
The stranger reaching toward another stranger.
The human being standing beneath the night sky, suddenly aware of something larger than themselves.
Perhaps prayer began there.
Not in language,
but in longing.
In attention.
In gratitude.
In helplessness.
In love.
I had come into the garden afraid that if someone asked me to pray, I would not know what to say.
And then I understood why Francis had been so quiet.
I had been listening for words.
He had been listening for
presence.
Maybe learning to pray
is not learning what to pray.
Maybe it is learning to become still enough to notice what is already there.
And when words come,
we give them.
When silence comes,
we give that too.
When action is required,
we rise.
Perhaps all three are prayer.
— a Torchbearer Wisdom by Corvalya