In these early spring days, as light slowly returns and life begins to stir beneath the surface, I find myself thinking about what it means to hold vigil for one another – to stand in the gap when someone else's strength falters, to carry what feels too heavy for them to bear alone. I’ll be talking about this on tomorrow’s show, too.
Recently, I've been reading "To Kill a Mockingbird" with my son. Though there may be newer books that address similar themes, there's something timeless about Atticus Finch's capacity to "climb into someone's skin and walk around in it" – his radical empathy that allows him to see beyond surface judgments to the deeper humanity beneath.
This, I think, is what prayer at its most profound often asks of us. Not merely to mention someone's name to God in passing, but to truly stand with them, to imagine ourselves in their circumstances, to feel something of what they feel, and to petition heaven from that place of compassionate identification.
As an Enneagram 7, this kind of prayer feels particularly costly to me. My natural inclination is toward the light, the joyful, the possibilities ahead. To voluntarily enter another's pain, to sit in the darkness with them without immediately trying to fix or brighten it – this runs counter to my instinctive emotional strategies. Prayer asks me to trust rather than control, to feel rather than escape, to be present rather than planning the next adventure.
And yet, there's something profoundly connecting about this kind of prayer. When I choose to truly hold vigil for someone – to imagine myself standing with them before God, carrying something of their burden – a sacred bond forms. Not because I'm somehow saving them, but because for a moment, they know they aren't alone on the path.
I'm reminded of that beautiful moment in "The Lord of the Rings" when Frodo, weary beyond measure from carrying the Ring, allows Sam to shoulder the burden briefly. Though it causes tension between them at points, it's a powerful depiction of how crucial it is to know we aren't alone with our heaviest loads. The journey doesn't become less difficult, but it becomes more bearable when shared.
Perhaps this is what we do when we pray for one another – we offer to carry the Ring for a while, to stand beside our friend on the slopes of Mount Doom when their strength fails. We can't complete their journey for them, but we can ensure they don't walk it in isolation.
If you're someone who, like me, finds deep prayer challenging – who struggles to trust, to feel, to enter into suffering without trying to immediately escape it – know that this struggle itself is part of the offering. The very cost is what makes it precious.
And if you're someone carrying a burden that feels too heavy right now – if the Ring around your neck is weighing you down beyond what you can bear – please don't continue alone. Ask for prayer. Not the quick, surface kind, but the holding-vigil kind. Allow someone to stand with you, to feel something of what you feel, to petition heaven on your behalf when your own words fail.
The most dangerous thing we can do in our weariness is isolate (remember our “The Fix” convo with Ian Cron on the pod?) – to convince ourselves that no one else could understand, that we shouldn't burden others, that we must carry our loads alone. This is rarely the path to healing.
As a couples' helper, I find myself in this sacred space regularly. While I'm celebrating with some couples, studying research for my next book proposal, and supporting thriving relationships, I'm also walking alongside couples who are profoundly weary on their journey. I hold vigil with them through their darkest moments, their painful revelations, their tentative steps toward healing.
And I've learned that I, too, need friends who will hold vigil with me as I carry these heavy burdens alongside the couples I serve. This is the beautiful cycle of care – we hold space for others, and others hold space for us, all of us ultimately releasing these weights to God, as Jesus invites in Matthew 11:28: "Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest."
This cycle prevents burnout, not because the work becomes less challenging, but because we're never meant to carry it alone. The burdens still exist, but they're shared, held in a community of care, and ultimately offered to the One whose shoulders are broad enough for all our collective weight.
The beauty of true prayer is that it creates a circle of presence – God's presence, our presence with each other, our presence with our own hearts. It invites us to practice the kind of radical empathy that Atticus embodied, to momentarily set aside our own comfort to truly see and stand with another.
And while it may seem counterintuitive, especially for those of us who instinctively avoid pain, this kind of prayer doesn't ultimately drain us. Like all genuine acts of love, it connects us to the Source of love itself. There's a mysterious exchange that happens in authentic prayer – we give our presence, and somehow find ourselves more fully present to our own lives as well.
So today, I invite you to consider: For whom might you hold vigil? Whose journey feels too solitary right now? And if it's your own path that seems unbearably lonely, who might you invite to stand with you – not to fix or solve, but simply to be present in prayer?
May we all become a little more like Atticus, able to step into another's experience with compassion. Like Sam, willing to share the weight for a time. And may we all know the relief of not having to carry our burdens alone.
Questions for Reflection:
Who in your life might need someone to hold vigil through prayer right now?
What makes deep, empathetic prayer challenging for you? What fears arise?
When have you experienced the gift of someone truly praying for you? How did it affect your journey?
What burden are you carrying that feels too heavy right now? Who might you invite to pray with and for you?
How might your understanding of prayer shift if you viewed it as "standing with" rather than "fixing"?
I invite you to carve out time this week for this kind of presence-prayer – not rushed, not distracted, but fully there with someone who needs to know they're not alone on the path.