Grief and Prayer in Analog

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A few months ago, my mother-in-law came from California and, to our children’s delight, brought our 10-year-old great-nephew with her. I didn’t know this would lead to my own heart-rending walk down memory lane.

Watching him play with our kids reminded me of his dad as a boy, and I said as much. “I’ve never seen a picture of my dad at my age,” he said, and although I was shocked for a moment, I also understood. In the digital age, who prints pictures anymore? But I couldn’t leave it at that.

Catalyzed by determination, I went on a wild goose chase. I unearthed an under-the-bed box from our basement guestroom that was filled with photographs. I eventually found a couple of the photos I set out for, to my great-nephew’s delight. But on my quest, I also found all sorts of other things: photos of my children when they were baldheaded babies and pictures of my grandma before she passed, long before dementia transformed the liveliness in her face.

The hardest photos to look at were the ones of my brother, who had died about a year earlier. I found pictures from decades past, before his body was ravaged by despair and addiction, pictures from when he was young and playful, interested in every game and activity I could rope him into.

These dozens of photos from my past met my eyes, brain, and heart with a sense of fatiguing grief. I was a bit startled by my emotional response and the intensity of it. But I have just enough administrative prowess to put my skills to use.

I found a flimsy photo book and slid the meaningful snapshots in its sleeves. As I did this, I said a little prayer: for those who’ve passed and for the various family members who struggle against the backdrop of the loss. I even prayed for some of the friends who’ve gone silent toward me in recent years.

I thought of one of my favorite prayers from the Book of Common Prayer. In this ancient prayer attributed to St. John Chrysostom, special significance is given to “when two or three are gathered” and how God “hears our petitions.” Both of these aspects were relevant to my circumstance.

If it weren’t for our great-nephew’s visit, I wouldn’t have gone looking. And if it weren’t for the search, I wouldn’t have needed to pray over my emotional reaction to these powerful memories.

Moments like these make me grateful for how accessible God is through prayer. In the midst of our grief, as our eyes and hands meet the tangible emblems of our loss, prayer allows us to set down what once was ours and entrust it to the loving care of our Savior.