But meaning was what I didn’t have. And prayer was about giving myself time to not know what things meant. Prayer was the suspension of my heart and mind’s relentless pleading for narrative. Its perilous drive toward meaning. Meaning was something precious, something that would have to be gradually sorted out by hearing, through prayer, in offering. It would have to be sorted out gradually with Christ. Something gradually sorted out through Word and Spirit, hearing and prayer, patient understanding and diligent intention.
