Present Over Perfect

Old Testament, harvesting and pressing olives for this rich
green liquid. This is the grounding truth of life with God,
that we’re connected, that we’re not alone, that life is not all
vinegar—puckery and acidic. It is also oil, luscious, thick,
heavy with history and flavor.
But you have to start with the vinegar or you’ll never
experience the oil. Many of us learned along the way to
ignore the vinegar—the hot tears banging on our eyelids,
the hurt feelings, the fear. Ignore them. Stuff them. Make
yourself numb. And then pray dutiful, happy prayers. But
this is what I’m learning about prayer: you don’t get the oil
until you pour out the vinegar.
I have a terrible habit of not praying about things that
seem too human, too trivial to me. I get annoyed, frankly,
when people pray for parking spaces in a world with so
much suffering, so I swing the other way . . . I’m scared and
I’m tired but I don’t say that; I say, “I’m sorry I’m so
fearful! I’m sorry I’ve gotten myself into this mess!” That’s
the heart of it: I don’t want to pray for anything that I may
have caused, or that I could undo on my own. I said yes to
speaking at this event, and now if I feel scared, that’s my
own fault. I said yes to this deadline, and now I’m tired and
struggling to meet it, but that’s my own fault.
I’m learning, though, that the God who loves me isn’t
just looking for apologies and report cards. He wants me to
bring the vinegar so that I can taste the oil. He has all the
time in the world to sit with me and sift through my fears
and feelings and failings. That’s what prayer is. That’s what