I have been sitting with several passages in Jim Forest’s The Road to Emmaus: Pilgrimage as a Way of Life. They are helping me see how prayer can become woven into the ordinary hours of a day.
Georgia Harkness described prayer as the art of conversation with God. I love that understanding. Conversation leaves room for questions, gratitude, sorrow, and the things we struggle to say. It also leaves room for listening.
And sometimes, between those who love each other, conversation becomes silence.
We can sit together without needing to fill every moment. The companionship itself is enough. I am beginning to understand prayer that way, too. Sometimes I have words. Sometimes I simply want to remain in God’s presence.
Forest speaks of prayer as becoming awake to God’s closeness. That phrase stays with me. I can become so occupied with my thoughts, responsibilities, and worries that I scarcely notice the life unfolding around me. Prayer invites me to pay attention—to receive this moment in the presence of God.
One of the most memorable images in these pages comes from advice Forest received from his Buddhist friend Thich Nhat Hanh: “wash every dish as if it were the baby Jesus.”
Think of the tenderness in that.
How carefully would I hold that child? How gently would I move? How present would I be?
Then imagine bringing that care to the kitchen sink. Warm water. A plate in my hands. An ordinary task receiving my attention.
I wonder what might happen if that tenderness followed me through the rest of the day. If I listened to someone with greater patience. If I answered with greater care. If I treated my own tired body with gentleness.
My hands might begin to practice what my lips have prayed.
Forest also writes about prayer and walking, whatever the length of the path. I find something welcoming in that. A few steps can hold a prayer. So can a walk through the park.
As I walk, I can bring my whole self: my physical body, my emotions, my thoughts, and my spiritual longing. I do not have to get everything settled before I begin. I can walk with God while questions remain unanswered.
The Jesus Prayer has become a companion for me:
Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on me.
Those familiar words give me somewhere to return when worry carries me away. Sometimes I continue repeating them. Sometimes I grow quiet and notice the trees, the light, or another person passing along the path.
I think of the disciples on the road to Emmaus, talking through their disappointment while Jesus walked beside them. They were accompanied before they recognized their companion.
Perhaps some of our own days are like that.
The final paragraph I have been pondering describes prayer becoming as ordinary a part of life as walking or breathing. Forest acknowledges that this takes discipline. Relationships need our attention. We make time, and we return.
I especially love his phrase “islands of prayer.”
Prayer at the beginning of the day. Prayer as the day closes. Brief moments in between when we remember God’s presence.
A thank-you over breakfast.
A quiet appeal for patience before a difficult conversation.
A moment of listening without preparing my reply.
A dish washed with tenderness.
These moments are small enough to belong to the life I already have. I can begin again when I forget. Even on a restless day, there is room to turn toward God.
This is the kind of prayer I want to keep learning: honest conversation, receptive silence, and loving attention expressed through daily life.
Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on me.
Awaken me to your presence.
Teach me to see with compassion,
to listen with wisdom,
to speak with love,
and to discern what is true and loving.
Let the ordinary work of my hands
become an offering of care. Amen.
—The Curious Pilgrim
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