WHY WE DON'T KNOW HOW TO PRAY

By Sr. Esther Jeruto Koros (OSF)

If you grew up as a child, in a family like the Wayans,

Nobody heard you, unless you were sick.

With a father talking at you before slamming the door,

Not caring for feedback.

I bet you don’t know how to pray…

Because you don’t know how it’s like to be listened to.

But I was told He hears without words…..

Now I pray.

 

If you grew up as a child, in a family wallowing in lack,

Where left overs was a myth, unless there was a funeral.

With a father known just for carnal glances,

Never providing a dime

 I bet you don’t know how to pray….

Because you don’t know what it’s like to be provided for.

But I was shown another kind of providence, the rain, the sun, my hands and feet.

Now I pray.

 

If you grew up as a child, in a family like the Wayans,

Where mirrors were too honest, unless you chose to ignore.

A father finding faults all the time,

Never noticing your efforts.

I bet you don’t know how to pray…

Because love is a thing on movies with which you never identify.

But I was told God is not actually a person, much less a man; a mother may be.

Now I pray.

 

If you grew up as a child, in a family like the Wayans,

Where you got smacked for taking a bath, unless you were going to church,

Water meant for cooking and cows.

Cleanliness raised eyebrows.

I bet you don’t know how to pray…

Because they say your body is God’s temple, to keep it clean.

But I was told, there was an elevated kind of cleanliness; body mind and soul.

Now I pray.

 

If you grew up as a child, in a family like the Wayans,

Where God was an old bearded record keeper,

Who kept a record of sins,

 I bet you don’t know how to pray…

Because your sins shun you away from his presence, bowed with shame.

But I was told, God forgets our sins once repented.

Now I pray.

 

If you grew up as a child, in a family like the Wayans,

Where beauty was fairness, and dark spelt evil

The word ugly used unsparingly on you.

I bet you don’t know how to pray…

Because your image and God’s have nothing on common.

But I was told, God was never white, and demons were never dark; may be something in between.

Now I pray.

 

 If you grew up as a child, in a family like the Wayans,

No goat was killed at your birth, you were merely another girl,

And God must be an actual man.

I bet you don’t know how to pray…

Because if God’s image was on you, you’d be a male.

But I was told, God’s neither male nor female; just a Hovering Spirit.

Now I pray. 

© November 2020