Prayers on the Edge of the Knife

The fluid movement of the knife as it slides through the skin of the tomato, that little punctuated give as the skin bursts from the pressure of the sharp edge, and prayers. Each slice is rhythmic and mesmerizing. “Dear Father in Heaven, Hear my prayer today.”
Does anyone else pray while they cook?

As a child, I accompanied my grandmother to church every week and sometimes twice a week on holidays. She was a woman of routine. Same pew in the front of the church. Same seat in the pew. Same rosary beads (I was Catholic at the time.) Same small devotional. But what I recall most about my time spent with her in the church was her deep meditative state of prayer. Nothing could interfere when Oma knelt before the Lord. Her eyes were fixed on Jesus, hanging beyond the altar. Her hands gripped her rosary, her fingers rhythmically twirling each bead on the silver chain. Her lips moved in silent whispers of adoration, praise, pleas, and reconciliation. People wandered into the row and moved over and around her. Children scuffled behind her seat. Women greeted each other and leaned over her to embrace. But she was not deterred. So deep was her prayer state that the walls could collapse in that vestibule, and the dust settling would reveal Oma still communing with our Lord.

I had much to learn when I left Catholicism for plain old Bible-reading nondenominational Christianity. Prayer without prompts was one of them. I thought of Oma and her litany of novenas. What about her prayer posture had me yearning for her experience?

Searching for that Prayer Experience

I began my search for a prayer experience that felt meaningful and authentic. An experience that drew me into a relationship with God that would block out all worldly distractions. One that would offer me protected and private time in communication with Abba, my Father. I tried devotionals, stacking up books and tracts of authors and preachers. But it didn’t serve me well.
I tried reading the bible front to back, day by day. It was important to me, being amongst the first time I had done so, and meaningful, but I was not having that undistracted experience I saw Oma have with God.
I tried a schedule of prayer, morning and night. It was – well – scheduled. Performative and prescriptive.
I tried a war room – setting up a particular closet just for prayer, which soon became cluttered with to-do lists as the world interfered.

And then, one day, before I realized it, without any planning or prompting, with no scheduling or forethought, I was caught up in prayer and minutes from where I remembered I once was. That life-altering experience you sometimes have when you’re driving and suddenly realize you’ve arrived somewhere and don’t remember even going there! One moment I was slicing a tomato for a dinner I was preparing, and the next, I was stirring a pot of sauce.

For me, and maybe for you, the meditative act of preparing food – for myself or others I love- is the fertile field for prayer. It is the holy ceremony of creation, of using the treasures and gifts our Father has provided to us so richly, without any quid pro quo, that brings us to the foot of the altar in adoration, praise, pleas, and reconciliation. It is the service we act upon and perform as we offer our prayers, the systematic design of melding the variety of ingredients to bring about love and nutrition. The chopping block and knife, the stirring spoon and pot, are my rosary beads, drawing me deeper into my commune with God as I share my joy and pain and ask his grace and mercy upon the needs of others and on my own. I am blessed by this space and by the favor God has shined upon my prayer experience, prayers on the edge of a knife.