Elspeth's Prayers

Elspeth handed me a stack of white paper, scrawled in bright colors: hearts, butterflies, riotous dresses. "This is for the children in Katie," she said, "Because they died." (Elspeth calls Haiti, Katie).

After breakfast, I held the girls and we danced together. I've danced with the girls since they were babies, to calm them, put them to sleep, wake them up, burn off energy, and just for the mighty comfort and joy of holding and moving to music, warmed by the heat of their little bodies. I've danced since I was tiny. I remember, as a toddler, sitting on our cool concrete floor in Bangladesh, shaping my fingers into the intricate positions of the Indian dancers on our little black and white TV. Dancing has always been a private way for me to process change, embrace mystery, to dwell in sadness and joy. Seeking to pray, words often feel so silly and incomplete, a flat tinny sound where I desire a ringing bell. As I danced with the girls this morning I was finally able to step into the confusing tragedy of Haiti, be in it for a few moments, and free from words, pray with the movement of my own body and through my love for my own daughters.

Later, before quiet time, Elspeth wanted to talk about the earthquake again, but instead I asked her if she wanted to pray for the people in Haiti. "Save the children," she prayed, and "Thank you for making it safe in Katie," and "For the love which from our birth," she concluded.

"For the love which from our birth" is a line from our family hymn, For the Beauty of the Earth written by Folliot Pierpoint in 1864. We've been singing it with the girls since they were little. The full first verse is: "For the beauty of the earth, for the glory of the skies; For the love which from our birth, over and around us lies. Lord of all, to thee we raise this our hymn of grateful praise."

Amen, child. Despite of, and because of, and because I do not know what else to say to God when I am angry, overwhelmed, and confused and still filled with a love for my own which makes me ache for those who have lost everything. Still, Amen.