When we were Faith Leader, then again in Courageous Conversations, I never understood why Grace loved intercessory prayer.  I didn't even really understand what it was.  Praying for someone else?  How could that work?  Not talking with them?  Or seeing them face to face?  How could prayer walk across the invisible air and do anything for anyone else? 

I actually thought it might one of those big christian hoaxes to make the pray-er feel better.  You know how people say stuff like that about us. "They just believe in God because it makes them have a place to place their sadness."  Or, "They believe in Jesus because they just want to get to some false heaven." 

I thought intercessory prayer was like that.

I still did it, mind you, on occasion. For people I know.  Tori.   Deanne.  Lorene.  My father.  My nephew.  My neighbors.  Johanna.  And Grace -- as she prayed for me, I prayed for her.

Honestly, though, I had no idea what or why I was doing. How, exactly, did it work?

But today I got it. 

Chris came back to finish my new kitchen.  I came home from school early, not feeling well.  As soon as I walked in the door, I could feel a red heat coming from him.  He barely looked me in the eye.  He barely said hello.  I just thought he was mad about having to redo work that he had already done once.  Weeks ago, I had told Mike, the contractor, that all of the appliances and cabinets would not fit and, of course, after all of the beautiful work Chris did, they did not.  A fortnight later, here he was again -- Chris -- tearing out old work and rehanging cabinets that would fit the dimension. 

I left my house.  I couldn't stand to be near his energy.  I did not want his energy in my house.  He was building me an angry kitchen.

I planted some peonies.  I tried to start my lawn mower.  He and passed each other several times going to or from the garage. Not a word spoken.

The whole four hours, he was yelling.  Swearing.  Smashing things.  Talking -- hard and fast -- under his breath. 

I had no idea what was going on; Chris had never acted this way. 

I read on the porch, then he called out for me.  I came in and Chris told me that he was coming back "to handle this crazy" tomorrow.  He explained how the new cabinet was not working out because of the slope in the old floor.  No matter how many times he tried, it just wouldn't stay level. 

Then, I don't recall the transition, or how he go to the next thing but then it all came tumbling out.  He hadn't slept in four days.  He hadn't eaten.  He left for work on Friday and by the time he came home, his wife was gone.  Had left him and had flown to Mississippi. How he was nearly forty and had messed up a relationship again.  How she had said he had been working too hard and was never home.  How he was working hard to try to gain money to pay an attorney who was trying to get her daughter back.  How he hadn't had anything to drink or smoke in two years.  How he was a good man who just worked too hard.  How he had tried to kiss her good bye on Friday and she stiffened to his kiss. How his mind was a swirl.  He had gone from normal to insane in one day. How his life flip flopped on him.

My heart leaped out of my heart.  My heart reached out its arms for his heart.

It was so easy to remember that February.  Her leaving.  Not sleeping.  Not eating.  My mind going 6,000 miles an hour. 

So I was suspended there, between his new grief and my old grief.  The sun was setting orange over his truck.  He took off his baseball cap, and rubbed his head.  Shook his head.  Bowed his head.  The disbelief hung on his thin shoulders.

I told him to not worry about my kitchen -- it could wait.  I told him to try to eat, try to sleep.

He finished packing up his tools in the kitchen while I swept.  He stood in front of me for a moment, I touched his shoulder.  Not calmly like in the movies.  I sort of patted him awkwardly.   My eyes too shy to match his eyes, I said, "I wish I could tell you that it will all be okay, but all I can say is to be careful going home.  Be safe with yourself." 

He said, "Ok.  Thank you."

Now, since then, all I can think of is Chris.  Chris, Chris, Chris.  This man who plastered my ceiling.  Who tiled my walls.  Who gave me lights.

And that's how I understand intercessory prayer.  Chris does not know I am thinking about him.  But somehow, I am heavier tonight.  I have willingly picked up his heartache.  I am carrying some of his pain.  He does not know it; he probably cannot feel it  because the kind of pain he is feeling has no left or right.  It's ups and downs are endless.  But, I have picked up some of that infinite ache and it must be helping.  I just know it has to help, because when the whole world prayed for me I know it helped me. 

I did not know how or why then, but tonight I understand.  Parts of me were crumbled into pockets.  Parts of me were scribbled on notes on bedside tables.  Parts of me were talked about over dinner tables.  Parts of me were skipped on thin river rocks.  My name was whispered in the dark.  I was prayed for and those prayers lessened the unburdenable burden.  My friends picked up my pain.  They asked God to carry some of it too.

That's what I am doing tonight.  That's what I will do tomorrow too. 

Hope for Chris.  Think about Chris. Hold Chris up a little bit. 

Pray. Yes, I will pray for Chris.