Present Over Perfect

of a child or the words of a friend or the color of the sky.
The ideals and the tactile stuff of the world, yes, but the
person of Christ: almost not at all. I don’t think that’s
particularly indicative of my church or my tradition—I think
that might just be me, and I wanted to figure out why.
As my friend asked me more about it, I think what might
lie beneath that sort of middle missing layer of prayer is my
own discomfort with need—my need. Jesus, when I think of
him, is the face of such love, such deep connection, it
makes me feel uncomfortable with my own need, with
needs that I don’t want to admit to having.
One confession. More often than not, I found myself
praying some version of: You got yourself into this; you get
yourself out. When I’m tired from too much traveling. When
I’m about to walk out on stage to speak. When I feel scared
about the enormity of a room or an opportunity. Something
inside me tells me that I can’t pray for things that I’ve
selected into and now need help with. If I’m honest, my
theology of prayer seems to be: You made your bed; now lie
in it.
But in the last year, I’ve been tiptoeing back into need,
into admitting need, admitting that I need help.
Just as I’d developed all kinds of defenses so that I
didn’t have to connect deeply with fear or anxiety or
complicated relational dynamics, I’d done the same thing in
my spiritual life: I was a good soldier, a responsible
daughter, a trustworthy servant . . . but I was not a deeply
loved friend or trusting and fragile daughter. In the same