The respiratory gunk hangs on. All
around me people hack and cough.
We take our breath for granted, and
it’s only when I wheeze that I am reminded of this constant function that keeps
me alive.
At our women’s fellowship, a woman
tells us about the Hebrew unpronounceable name for God. This isn’t because God is remote, she
explains; rather God’s name shows how very close the great I Am really is—as
close as our breath. The letters Yhwh are not meant to be pronounced but rather
to be breathed. We inhale the Yh; we
exhale the wh.
And as I use another inhaler and
drink hot tea, I give thanks for the God who keeps me going. Every moment of my
day, each labored breath, is an invitation to remember the Creator and all breathing
things.
Years ago a 90-year-old woman with
great physical difficulties taught me a prayer that comes to mind frequently (a
sure sign of God’s presence, as Ignatius would say, because the effects of this
prayer are longlasting).
“Breathe in God; breathe out
anxiety,” Mary used to pray. She repeated the two phrases to help us
let go of distracting thoughts and enter more deeply into prayer.
I am aware that my existence is
inextricably linked to the unconscious habit I have of breathing.
The lungs link me to Abba (another great word for inhaling and exhaling).
What thoughts am I thinking under
my breath?
I long to curse the illness and the
people who don’t stay home when they are sick. Instead I ask Yhwh to turn this
breath into a prayer for all who suffer respiratory issues.
Or I think of nearly 3 billion
people in developing countries who cook over open fires in their homes,
breathing in smoke and living shorter lives as a result. Where is the justice
in that?
I breathe as deeply as I can,
wondering what Yhwh is thinking.
The naked tree outside my window speaks winter, but
tiny brown wrens dance among the twiggy branches. They announce spring is
coming. I breathe along with them and praise the God who holds us all.
