An assumption of Christian faith permeated central Canada during the 1960s and 70s when I was growing up. Shops and offices were closed on Sundays. Most people spent Sunday mornings at church—children sitting quietly in fear of ‘The Look’ should they disturb the adults. The Lord’s Prayer was recited each morning in school classrooms. The families I knew all said grace before meals and prayers with their children before lights out at night. Yet, only once do I remember getting a hint that faith might be more than these external trappings.
In my mind’s eye, I can still see the details of that morning. The small, braided rug interrupted the bedroom’s hardwood floor gleaming in the early morning light. My gentle grandfather knelt beside the unmade bed with his head lowered, hands clasped, and arms resting on the mattress edge. I was awed by the scene I had stumbled upon. I had never once imagined such an action might be part of his life. Nothing was said about it, but I knew he had been praying—silently, at home, alone. The memory of this quiet act of humility has inspired my spiritual journey as an adult.
As many do, I drifted away from the faith practices of my youth. As a young adult, parenting a toddler full-time and feeling frazzled, I returned to the church in search of community and a more grounded life. I encountered Christ in the Eucharist and Scripture. The people I met embodied a settled contentment which reminded me of my beloved grandfather. They helped me realize that the life of contentment and peace I had glimpsed years before could become my reality. But, to do that, I needed to develop a relationship with Christ that stretched beyond Sunday mornings—one based not only on the prayers said aloud with others but also ones silently whispered in private. It was the beginning of a lifelong journey to deepen the most formative relationship of my life.
Addressing Christ directly, in private, felt awkward at first. I preferred to use the text set by the morning and evening prayers in the prayer book. The liturgical structure was familiar, both from my childhood and the Eucharistic service the church was now using. The prewritten words made it feel safe. As my life circumstances changed, I began to feel these prayers were not conveying my heart in the way I wanted—thus began years of experimenting with a variety of prayer formats. For a long time, I dedicated the tasks of my day to Him as acts of love and prayer. Making dinner, doing laundry, or finding something for a colleague at work became ways of serving Christ in the practicalities of my day. Centering prayer, a practice for quieting the internal chatter to listen for Christ, was a weekly activity for some time. Lectio Divina—a form of praying with scripture—and journaling were my primary practices for a few decades. Regardless of the form my prayers took, the sense of Christ meeting me in them did not change. Discerning His gentle presence got easier and easier.
Now, decades later, I still meet Christ in the Eucharist, in Scripture, and in private prayer. While I used to fit my prayer life into the spaces around the other tasks of my days, now it is my life. It is an ongoing conversation.
These days my relationship with Christ flows from contemplation—simply being fully attentive to Christ’s presence and being with Him. My mornings begin by making a mug of tea and sitting quietly. I might watch the trees sway in the wind and listen to the magpies screeching. My knee catches my attention. It still aches slightly from being twisted last week. I notice my thoughts seem to cycle this morning around physical projects in the yard. Sometimes there is a sense of Christ nudging in response to my noticing, and sometimes there isn’t. Tea done, the tasks of the day begin.
Our conversation continues, though. Whether it’s the beauty of the woodgrain while wiping crumbs from the table, or ponderings about the microscopic universes forever changed by vacuuming up the dust bunnies—all is intentionally shared with Christ. In the evening, I again sit quietly with him, enjoying the slow shift towards night. I might look for the first star to appear overhead, or listen to the evening’s performance by the frog symphony. As I settle in bed, I offer him heartfelt gratitude for the day we have shared.
My prayer life does not always feel this spacious. Like everyone, I experience times of darkness—times Christ suddenly seems absent from my life. I awake with the feeling the hermitage, and me in it, have been abandoned. The quietude is not comforting on these days, but instead lonely. The peaceful routines that usually ground my days feel empty—yet paradoxically overflowing with a sense of pointlessness. On days like this, I am generally drawn to witness the more challenging realities of life. I notice how feeling lonely stirs thoughts of being unwanted. I see the ugliness of litter in the ditches. The distant howl of the coyotes reminds me that some creature’s life is being cut short. Yet, just as on the more pleasant days, it is the sharing of what I notice that matters for our conversation. When Christ feels absent, I simply offer my observations into the seeming nothingness. I accept the silence of His response, trusting in His caring presence, and long for the sense of darkness to lift.
When the feeling of Christ’s absence lingers too long, doubts begin to settle in. I am tempted to abandon hope that He’ll return. It is at times like this that I rely upon the faith of others to help. The deepest loss of hope I’ve faced was during a time of unexpected transition. I had dreamed of ministering in Africa for years, but shortly after moving there, it became clear I needed to return to Canada immediately. While I continued to participate in the Eucharist upon my return, for weeks I had little faith that I would ever sense Christ’s presence again. I felt abandoned and lost. Two things got me through. First, witnessing the faith of others around me in the liturgy encouraged me to continue to look for Christ there. Secondly, meeting friends for coffee or a meal helped me find Him in daily life again. They’d listen to me stumblingly tell my story as I tried to make sense of where I was, how I’d gotten here, and what might be next. Christ and faith were not overtly talked about. Advice was not offered. Their care in listening allowed me to eventually once again recognize Christ’s presence and love at the tables we shared and in my life.
My relationship with Christ has endured thanks to His love and commitment to be with us always. My part has been to trust, listen for Him, and stumblingly walk forward—even in the darkness. Like any relationship that lasts, it has changed over the years. It has become, I think, the relationship I glimpsed in my grandfather’s bedroom so long ago. One, I like to believe, that he prayed for me to discover—enduring, nurtured in silence, and deeply personal.
