For someone who likes words, I seem to spend a lot of my time not able to find the right ones.
Many of my days are spent searching for perfect words, and then trying to arrange them in the perfect order. There are plenty of moments where I can’t even seem to find adequate words, let alone perfect ones. Ask anyone who’s spent part of their life trying to have a conversation with me and they’ll tell that you that patience is a prerequisite. I’m very conscious of the frequency with which I make people wait in silence while I rack my brains for the combination of words that is just right.
God gets it worse than anyone else. He has to deal with me when I am overwhelmed by a swirling maelstrom of emotion and thought, and struggling to put it all into prayer. Paul tells the Romans that when we don’t know what to pray, the Spirit intercedes for us with wordless groans. Maybe, but a lot of the time I can’t even manage to find the right groan.
In Canterbury Cathedral there’s a stained glass window that captures a moment from the life of Jesus. He’s at a table, and crouched at his feet is a woman, and those of us familiar with the story know that she’s weeping, bathing his feet with her tears and drying them with her hair.
There are no words in that cathedral window. There are no words in that story, at least not from the woman. There are words from Jesus and words from the guests at the meal who are outraged by her behaviour, but there are no words from her. Words are unnecessary. Her tears are her prayer; each drop a blend of unspoken syllables and meaning; each splash heard and perfectly understood by the Son of God.
That thought is of immense comfort to me every time I sit in front of that window, without words, and try to make sense of what’s going on inside me. The confusion that I can’t unravel is my prayer to God, and it already makes perfect sense to Him.
