God. 

We talk about our challenges. To you and to others.
Not looking for fixes, always. Looking for a listener.

And then people tell us stories of how things work for other people. As if the story of Hannah finally having a son and giving him back to you means that we’ll get what we want if we promise to give it back to you. 

God.

We know that you work and walk with each of us differently. 
We know that you understand humans from the inside out. 
We sometimes forget that you work and walk. 
We often forget that you understand our wants and desires and frustrations. 
That you understand. 

So great high priest who heard the cry of your daughter Hannah in her longing for a son, hear our prayer. 

• Hear the cry of friends and families who cannot, and may not, understand the death of the one they loved. 
• Hear the laughter of the child seeing snow and lights for the first time. 
• Hear the uncertainty of the man with the new diagnosis and the woman who bears the pain for days and months and years. 

Hear the words of our mouths, Lord Christ. 
Hear our hearts with inexpressible grief or joy.

We ask through Christ our Lord.

Amen.

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There are two published collections of my chapel prayers. They were written during years A and C of the three-year cycle of the Revised Common Lectionary, interacting with the hospital, the Scripture texts, and God. Year C starts on December 1, 2024, and is the book, “God. We Need You.”: A Year of Prayer in a Hospital Chapel. If you find these prayers helpful for personal or public reading, I’d invite you to order copies as gifts or for your chair-side table. I am, by the way, finally working on the third collection.