Can't Sleep? Try Praying.

So many of us struggle with restless nights. Several years ago I posted a “Prayer When I Can’t Sleep,” which I’m sharing again today, along with a reflection about praying in “the night watches.” These dark and quiet hours are particularly vulnerable times. They can open us to surrender, self-offering—even praise—if we can transform them from empty moments of worry and frustration into vigils of prayer and connection.

From the October issue of Give Us This Day, shared here with permission.

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Holy One, Maker of the Stars,
In the beginning there was only darkness,
And your wind swept across the face of the deep.
Tonight I see this darkness. I hear its silence.
I feel its emptiness. It surrounds me.
In my home all is still except my mind.

Sweep across me, Holy One, whole and entire,
Across every undone thing in me, every unresolved thought,
Every restless rustling of my soul, every ache and pain of my tired body.
Speak with your creative breath into my night,
Speak the light of your presence into every crack and crevice,
So I may have peace and sleep, and wake to the gentle hope of morning.


Praying Through the Night

When the psalmist couldn’t sleep, he prayed.

He prayed in his bed, he prayed on his couch, he prayed in the sanctuary and under the stars. He cried aloud, he wept, he stretched out his hands, groaned, pondered, meditated, and exhorted. He blessed God. He felt God’s hand upon him. He remembered God’s name and proclaimed God’s faithfulness. And according to the psalms, he did all of this “by night,” in “the watches of the night,” or even “all night.” (See, for example, Psalms 6, 63, and 77.)

Most of us have struggled at one time or another with falling or staying asleep. Lying awake at night can feel frus­trating, wasteful, and lonely. But the middle of the night has traditionally been a fruitful, even intentional, time for prayer. In some religious communities, rising in “the watches of the night” to pray is customary.

The nighttime hours are dark and quiet, with fewer distractions than our full and busy days. If we live with others, they are likely asleep. We are not needed. We won’t be inter­rupted. There is nothing we need to accomplish. In the stillness and silence, we can turn our full attention inward, to our hearts, and raise our hands outward, to our God.

The dark of night can feel oppressive, but we can learn to experience it biblically—as the “original darkness” before creation, from which light sprang forth and life overflowed, out of which the relationship between God and human beings emerged. Darkness may feel like a void, but it is the void that gives way to all that lives.

The darkness of our sleepless nights teems with potential. Our wakefulness can become a vigil, our restlessness an invitation, our silence a summons to the Maker of the Stars to speak in us with the same creative breath that swept across the original darkness. In keeping this vigil, our own darkness may be filled with light—the light of Christ that cannot be extinguished.

And so it is that in the watches of the night, we may come to share another experience of the psalmist—faith that in the presence of God who neither slumbers nor sleeps, darkness is not dark at all, for the night shines like the day (Ps 121:4; 139:12).

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Amy Ekeh, from the October 2024 issue of Give Us This Day, www.giveusthisday.org (Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 2024). Used with permission.

Prayer vigils. Photo by Tim Vineyard.

From the Ground Up

This feature essay for April’s Give Us This Day was written immediately after the funeral of Tom Stegman, SJ, in 2023. I’ve lost three more friends in the months since. I’m not alone—you too have lost friends and loved ones, and you too have had times when you felt that the losses just kept coming. These are the days when we decide if we really believe what we say we believe, the days we hear each other whispering and encouraging, “We are an Easter people.” These are the days when we dig deeply within ourselves to find an Amen, even an Alleluia—when perhaps we finally understand what it means to say that death and resurrection are a single event, that we can speak them in a single breath, and share them with one another as a single gift. Happy Easter, all.

From the Ground Up

There was a man named Jesus. Born in Bethlehem, raised in Nazareth, preached in the land of Israel. In a time of political and religious tension, Jesus of Nazareth saw the writing on the wall. His work was coming to an end. One night after a meal, he walked the countryside, one foot in front of the other, to a grove of olive trees, a place he liked to go. He had a terrible decision to make, a terrible night to pass. He threw himself on the ground and lay face down in the dirt of the garden (Mark 14:35).

There were two women named Mary. One foot in front of the other, they were on their way to visit the body of a dead man. Wracked with grief, their sole consolation was the duty before them, to care for his body, the body of Jesus of Nazareth. And suddenly he appeared before them—himself but more, alive but more—risen, glorious, eternal. They fell to the ground in belief and disbelief, the two so often bleeding into each other (Matt 28:9).

There was a man named Saul. He traveled along a well-worn road, the road from Jerusalem to Damascus, on his way to stifle faith in a man named Jesus. One foot in front of the other, with zeal and determination, he walked. He walked until a flash of light and a voice like a waterfall—the voice of Jesus of Nazareth—knocked him to the ground. Face down in the dirt, life as he knew it fell apart as the sound and light scattered all around him (Acts 9:3-4).

Scripture insists, Scripture repeats: on the ground is not a bad place to be. This is the place where we grapple with life—and death. This is the place where we grieve and fight—the place where we believe, doubt, believe again—the place of resolve and resilience. The place we are remade.

Jesus stood up and set his face to Golgotha, dusting himself off in the center of that beautiful grove of trees, announcing to his drowsy disciples: “The hour has come!”

The two women stood up, letting go of the feet of Jesus. They dusted themselves off and stood tall. They looked him in the eye and knew. It was time to tell the Good News.

Saul stood up. He saw nothing but darkness. But within, all was light. He dusted himself off—the dirt of that road still clinging to his face and feet. That blessed dirt, the dirt of Damascus, that place of being utterly and completely changed.

Scripture insists, Scripture repeats: no matter where we fall, no matter how long we lie there, no matter the grief or fight that took us down, the dirt beneath us is sacred ground. It is from this place that we will stand again—ourselves but more, alive but more. Dusting ourselves off, we will walk on—all light within—one foot in front of the other.

* * * * * * * * * *

 Amy Ekeh, from the April 2024 issue of Give Us This Day, www.giveusthisday.org (Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 2023). Used with permission.

Christ and the Garden of Olives, Paul Gauguin (1889)

Resources for Lent 2024!

Hello all! Three things to share with you as Lent is just around the corner . . .

First: Liturgical Press asked me to create an informal Author Video answering some questions about Come to Me, All of You: Stations of the Cross in the Voice of Christ. They will be sharing short excerpts of the video on social media, but the full video is available on YouTube if you are interested in learning more background about this new version of the Stations, the artwork in the book, and different ways to pray with these Stations. (Tip: If you want to skip from question to question, click “Watch on YouTube” at the bottom of the video below. Once on YouTube, you’ll see a shaded box below the video where you can choose which parts of the video you’d like to listen to.). Here ‘tis if you are interested!

Second: Here’s a great book for Lent — Catherine (Cackie) Upchurch’s daily reflections, Not by Bread Alone 2024. Cackie is a wonderful writer and spiritual companion—wise and insightful—you will enjoy getting to know her this Lent. (You can read a few sample reflections by clicking on “SEE INSIDE” under the book image here.)

And finally: I leave you with one of my favorite quotes, written by Welsh poet and Anglican priest R.S. Thomas, who was known for, among other things, being a bit on the crotchety side. Oh well, I’ve always been a bit partial to crotchety types! I love this quote for Lent . . . always leaning toward Easter. Blessings!

“There have been times when, after long on my knees in a cold chancel, a stone has rolled from my mind, and I have looked in and seen the old questions lie folded and in a place by themselves, like the piled grave clothes of love’s risen body.”
— R.S. Thomas

It’s always an honor to be with Cackie!

New Stations of the Cross Book: Come to Me, All of You

Hello, all! I’m excited to share that I’ve been working on a new project with a gifted artist named Gabrielle Rowell. Gabby and I have collaborated on a new version of the Stations of the Cross, now available from Liturgical Press.

Why I Wrote These Stations

I have always loved the Stations of the Cross. The reason goes back decades. As many of you know, I grew up in a small Episcopal parish in Plano, Texas. The Stations of the Cross was an essential part of our Lenten practice as a parish family. Actually, the full practice was soup, sandwiches, and Stations! Every Friday evening in Lent for years, I ate peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with my friends in the parish hall, and then gathered in the church with the whole community to pray the Stations. I was an altar server, so I often walked from station to station with a large candle in hand. No doubt this experience remains a part of my muscle memory. I still prefer to walk the Stations rather than pray them in a pew.

The Stations of the Cross is a devotion that has structure but allows a good deal of imagination and creativity. When I began dreaming about a new version of the Stations, I wasn’t sure how to go about it. But I began to think and pray with these sacred moments, entering as much as possible into Jesus’ experiences. One day the painful Tenth Station was on my mind: Jesus is stripped of his garments. I wondered if—in that moment when every last thing was stripped from him—Jesus may have recalled the stories of Eden, where the first human beings were naked but not ashamed (Gen 2:25). A realization that the Scriptures he knew so well must have permeated Jesus’ mind and heart in moments of crisis allowed me to reimagine the scene. Perhaps Jesus was not utterly humiliated in that moment, as I had always thought. Perhaps he was comforted, even strengthened, by recalling this original truth—that we are all naked before God, and we need not be ashamed. No doubt this was a moment of suffering, but perhaps it was also an experience of total surrender and freedom before God.

I began to let this imagining inspire the way I thought and wrote about the other Stations. What might Jesus have been thinking as he walked this path? What bits and pieces of Scripture might have surfaced as he struggled? In the moment he saw his mother? When Veronica touched his face? When the first nail struck? We cannot know for sure, but there is value in wondering, in imagining, in entering the mind of Christ and hearing his voice speak within us.

There is one thing I knew for certain as I prayed with and wrote these Stations: whatever Jesus might have been experiencing and thinking, we are all invited to be a part of it. Because with God, every thought is outward movement. It is all invitation: Come to me, all of you. This invitation saturates these Stations. Whether Jesus is falling to the ground or being lifted up on the cross, he is thinking of us. He is calling us to stay close.

The Art

Art helps us imagine. As this project came into focus, I knew it needed art that would help us walk this painful, life-giving path. I reached out to Gabrielle Rowell, a young artist, photographer, and mother living in Washburn, Missouri, whose work I have followed for several years. Gabby’s art is both bold and gentle—this was the artistic tone I envisioned for Come to Me, All of You. And it is what Gabby created. You can visit gabriellerowellart.com to see her beautiful, original linocuts, each one carved by hand for this book.

Inside of Come to Me, All of You, you’ll also find a simple guide for praying with the art Gabby has created. It is our hope that both the words and images in this new version of the Stations of the Cross will help you enter more deeply into the mind and heart of Christ.

Learn More

To learn more about Come to Me, All of You: Stations of the Cross in the Voice of Christ and to see sample pages, visit litpress.org/stations. Multi-copy pricing is available for those who wish to purchase ten or more copies for sharing or parish use.

You can also view a “Question and Answer” author video about the book here.

Please feel free to share with others who may be interested in praying the Stations of the Cross in a new way! And thank you all, as always, for your encouragement and support—you are a blessing to me!

Come to Me, All of You

The Eighth Station: Jesus Meets the Women of Jerusalem

Linocut carving of the Eighth Station before stamping

Artist Gabby Rowell and her daughter Saoirse

The Unbearable Tension of Hope

The essay below was published in the October issue of Give Us This Day as commentary on this week’s lectionary — especially the readings from Romans on Monday and Tuesday, but also looking forward to the celebrations of All Saints and All Souls on Wednesday and Thursday.

I consider that the sufferings of this present time are as nothing
compared with the glory to be revealed. (Rom 8:18)

St. Paul was a master of opposites. I can remember my New Testament professor making wonderful lists of Pauline opposites on a chalkboard, back when chalkboards were a thing. What a wonderful list he would have made (and probably did!) with the readings we have this week from Romans 8 (Monday and Tuesday). In Column A, we have this present time, characterized by: flesh, death, spirit of slavery, fear, and suffering. In Column B, we have what is to be revealed, with its corresponding opposites: Spirit, life, spirit of adoption, hope, and glory. I can almost hear the spirited scratch of chalk and see those dust particles flying!

Although Paul suffered plenty of rejection as a preacher, there is a reason his gospel took hold and still speaks to us today. Paul knew all too well that suspended feeling each of us experiences every day of our lives—the “eager expectation,” the waiting, the endurance, the groaning—the way it feels to live in both columns.

Paul’s gospel was about hope. Not a shallow hope meant to numb or appease, but a “prophet-who-has-seen-the-Promised-Land” kind of hope, a living witness. Paul’s understanding of salvation was primarily apocalyptic; he was convinced that the present and the future intersect and collide. The present time is moving inexorably toward a future that is rich and overflowing with glory. In the meantime, we “groan.” And yet! In the meantime, we already taste God’s glory as children of God who live in a time of incredible promise: as “joint heirs with Christ” we will inherit everything Christ himself has inherited. The first inheritance is resurrected life.

Paul’s opposites express the almost unbearable tension of this apocalyptic hope. Although salvation is playing out in our lives every day, indeed every moment, it has not played out in its fullness. Not yet. But if one column of our chalk­board list could be etched in gold, it would be Column B, with its one foot firmly in the present and its full lean into an abundant future. Indeed, Paul insists that “the sufferings of this present time” are “as nothing” (“a small price to pay,” translates Brendan Byrne, SJ). Elsewhere Paul insists that “this slight momentary affliction” will yield “an eternal weight of glory” (2 Cor 4:17).

Sometimes the “sufferings of this present time” overwhelm us. Death, fear, and futility still have their way with us. And yet it is Paul’s vision—one that was acquired, let’s not forget, on a dusty road to Damascus when he encountered the Risen One in a blaze of light—that sustains us. The “glory to be revealed” is none other than our own transformative encoun­ters with God as joint heirs of the Risen Lord—a glory we can already see, taste, and touch, but which we do not yet fully experience.

The saints and souls we celebrate on Wednesday (All Saints) and Thursday (All Souls) are living witnesses of this light-filled vision. Having lived the opposites, they are icons of the hope etched in gold—a hallmark of Paul’s gospel and of every Christian life.

Amy Ekeh, from the October 2023 issue of Give Us This Day, www.giveusthisday.org (Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 2023). Used with permission.

Postscript: My New Testament professor was Fr. Frank Matera at The Catholic University of America, now retired in my home diocese, the Archdiocese of Hartford, where I’m blessed to see him regularly. He taught me so much about reading the New Testament, and I continue to count on his mentorship and friendship.