A Liturgy for the Lost Little Girls

Photo by Zach Lezniewicz on Unsplash

This week alone, I have interacted with at least a dozen women whose wounds have been exposed in some way shape or form. Each day, in my job, I see them. I hold them. I hear their hearts and dry their tears. Sometimes, I see the wounds before they do. Sometimes I don't realize they were there until later.

Either way, sometimes, I forget to pray for them.

When I do remember, though, the prayers come out anguished and laced with grief. "Heal them!" I plead. "Make them well!"

He does, in His time. Meanwhile, He teaches me that compassion means "to suffer with"--and so I do.

This prayer is for the ones who suffer trials and the ones who suffer compassion. In other words--it's for you.

May it offer a place of healing and safety, no matter where you are.

...

Father,

I wince at that name of yours.

It’s so beautiful for some,

And so wounding for others.

We have been hurt by our fathers and mothers,

Our sisters and brothers,

Our friends and our lovers.

We are aching,

Bloodied,

Broken,

And so desperately afraid to trust.

We need you in these wounds,

and yet we don’t even want to open them to ourselves.

We do everything we can to make them invisible, running ourselves ragged, withholding grace because if the wounds aren’t healed and the brokenness remains, then who can stop? We’ll tarry till we’re better.

Help us, Father, for we have forgotten that your good news is really good.

We lash ourselves with condemnation.

We wall ourselves in isolation.

We speak to ourselves and others in ways you never would.

We forget your delight—or maybe we never knew it at all.

Lord, we know in our minds that all of who you are is beyond our imagination—and we are grasping at thin air trying to find an impression of that Person.

We cannot see the way you look at us.

We cannot feel the gentleness of your hands.

We cannot hear the love in your voice.

While trying to make our wounds invisible, we have made you invisible, too.

Help us, Father.

Break through our blindness.

Speak until our deaf ears can hear.

Touch us until the numbness wears away.

Awaken our imaginations. Let us meet with you there. Let us see you on book pages and in movies and through the faces of friends. Be real to us.

Let us dance in your delight, for you are a God who sings it over us.

Let us speak life, not death, to ourselves and others.

Let us hold one another’s hand, braving trust to be your presence to each other.

Let us live as if we are free.

Bind up our wounds, Father. Do whatever it takes. Step into those places, those moments, those memories, in which our hearts were broken.

Bring life from the death there.

And when we doubt that you can do it, when our imaginations fail and we cannot feel anything good about your gospel—do it anyway.

Father, God who raises children from dust and rocks, restore us.

For all the lost little girls—bring us home.

Amen