I grew up in a very strong faith tradition with a clear understanding of prayer—its purpose, its subject, its Object, its how-to’s, its requirement, and my obligation.

But when I left the church (and religion), I left prayer, as well.

Admittedly, it was a harder goodbye.

*****

One of my daughters traversed a season of struggle that stretched us both beyond capacity or reason, sometimes beyond hope. There were more than a few times in which I couldn’t decide if I should call her therapist, my therapist, or just hide under the covers and let her do the same. At its very worst, I wrestled with what felt like the real possibility of losing her altogether. At its very best (which wasn’t “best” at all), I was exhausted, drained, and worn thin. I won’t keep you in suspense: she is an amazing young woman—wise, delightful, aware of pain and grief’s inevitability, able to offer profound empathy and compassion to others (and herself); she astounds me. But before this “happy ending,” there was one particular night . . .

I sat on the edge of my bed and sobbed, excruciatingly aware of how isolated and alone I felt as a single mom, more afraid than I’d ever been, and shockingly clear that I had no sway or will or power when it came to the mind and heart of my precious girl. Through tears that shook me to my core, I remember saying to myself, “I wish I still believed in prayer.” In that singular moment, I acknowledged that it was no longer a comfort at my disposal. “How convenient,” I thought, “to hand all this off, to believe that in surrendering, in turning it over to God, that ‘all things will work together for good.’”

I wanted to pray, but knew that it would be disingenuous, not to mention little more than a desperate wish, a frantic grasping at anything to ease my pain—futile in lessening hers. I couldn’t do it. I wouldn’t. I didn’t.

Despite a darkness that nearly consumed, I could do nothing but breathe (and even that, in faltering, ragged ways), unaware that perhaps my very exhale was what allowed a spark to catch, an ember to smolder, my hope to flicker, my desire to ignite. I finally fell asleep, barely trusting that it would endure, that it was enough.

Some might say, including myself, I was stubborn to not pray that night, to not summon any possible source of supernatural aid. I can’t tell you why my resistance was so resolute, my awareness so visceral. Any other night, I might have sublimated every emotion, dissociated, shut down. I might have flung myself on some altar of repentance, made promises I couldn’t keep, begged for a miracle. Instead, for reasons that still defy me, I walked through that “valley of the shadow of death” feeling everything, present to all of it, and sheltering a desire within that somehow survived.

Now, more than a decade later and with the perspective that time always brings, I have realized that in not praying, in not seeking some kind of divine respite or answer or fix, it was my desire to which I clung, believed in, and allowed. Though in the moment, it felt faltering and unreliable, I can see now that it was actually blazing, intense, and undaunted. It was (and is) a full and unrestrained expression of everything within me. More than enough.

*****

Most of us are profoundly ambivalent about the word “desire,” let alone its impact—thanks in large part to the story of Eve (as its been told). We have been taught that a woman’s desire is dangerous and to blame for the downfall of all humanity. We have been convinced that pursuing it only upsets the apple cart, cannot be trusted, leads to disaster, and that succumbing to it will end with eternal flames. It’s no wonder that prayer is promoted and preferred!

Desire is dangerous—in the very best of ways. It takes courage. And faith. There is no promise of the outcome we long for. No guarantee. Just sheer determination, firm belief, and an endless trust in what blazes within us in the deepest and most persistent of ways. It’s a testimony to the know-that-we-know-that-we-know voice within—worthy of being fanned into flame, an inferno, a wildfire.

Unlike prayer—where words, emotions, longings, and hopes are offered to a divine listener, desire is entity in and of itself. It is both object and subject. It is raw, visceral, and embodied. It is not something done and then forgotten, uttered and then released. It stays. It simmers. It clarifies. It blazes. As it should. As it must. As we deserve.  

*****

That night at the edge of my bed, wracked with worry, and at the end of my rope, I couldn’t yet see that everything I felt was my desire. I couldn’t yet recognize that it was a sacred roar, a holy bonfire, a veritable volcano on my daughter’s behalf. I couldn’t yet know that it’s conflagration would hardly destroy, but strengthen and sustain.

I wonder if I would have done anything differently, been different, had I been able to see, recognize, and know my desire as sacred expression, as catalyst, as everything. I wonder if I would have asked my daughter honest questions about her desire. I wonder if I would have made ample space for her to rage and scream and blaze. I wonder if we would we have had heated conversations about injustice and anger and God that were politely avoided because no “acceptable” answers sufficed. I wonder if we would have demanded a different world—where our fiery hearts and deepest desires were honored and affirmed.

I cannot know, of course. But now, unlike then, I do know that acknowledging my desire, allowing it, and certainly feeling and expressing it—nothing withheld, no restraint, wild, untamed, and passionate—is what emboldens and empowers me in ways I couldn’t have imagined or hoped.  

In her book Untamed, Glennon Doyle says this:

If women [and men] trusted and claimed their desires, the world as we know it would crumble. Perhaps that is precisely what needs to happen…Maybe Eve was never meant to be our warning. Maybe she was meant to be our model. Own your wanting. Eat the apple. Let it burn.

Amen!

There are days and times when I still feel a lingering ache for prayer’s comfort and solace. But less and less. I don’t need to be soothed, but enflamed. I don’t need to surrender, but rise up. I don’t need to seek answers, but take action. And my desire is what compels all of this and then some. Endlessly burning. One might even say “without ceasing.”

[I wrote a version of this post back in 2021. I trust it still speaks today in rewritten form. It is definitely still an expression of my heart . . . and yes, my desire.]