hello. peace.

[this is kind of long, but it is worth it. i can't stop thinking about it.]

"Prayer is God, who works all things," wrote Gregory of Sinai. This is a bold statement.

Once I was at Mass in Limerick City. It was evening, and I was with my friend Siobhan. She had been feeling a dry scrape of the heart when she tried to breathe deeply, and she was considering a pilgrimage; a return to a place of consolation. She was thinking Medjugorje or perhaps Taize or maybe a monastery just a few miles away.

The priest spoke. "When you find yourself empty, do not imagine a mountain of transfiguration will be the answer. Sit. Breathe quietly for a few minutes in your own room, on your own chair. Trust. Sometimes, when you do this regularly, you are brought into a quiet place of prayer where you are not sure where you end and where God begins."

There are moments when I believe the right thing is said.

We both breathed deeply.

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In Belfast, I watched a woman push a child in a pram. It was not a bright day. It was grey, as it often is. The woman did not look at ease. The child was squirming and whimpering- "gurning" as we say in Belfast.

The woman stopped pushing the pram, moved to stand in front of it, and leaned down so that her face was a foot away from the face of what looked like a child of just twenty-four grey months and screamed "I hate you!"

She screamed her hate loudly.

Life in the heart of the city continued. Lottery cards and mobile phone minutes were sold, used, and discarded. The smell of beer, fish, and chips was on the street. People in track suits and people in smart suits walked past each other. The cheap shops sold cheap things. (The expensive shops were mostly shut down.)

That was two years ago. I am sure that child is still alive.

There are some things you never forget.

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Jesus of Nazareth was a tricky man. You couldn't ever tell where he was coming from.

One night people who had loved him were gathered in a room, afraid. They were probably afraid for a few reasons- the torture, the death, the empty tomb, the strange promises now rumored to be true, their association, their betrayal, their absence in the final hours of a friend's life.

And without them knowing where he came from, he was there.

And he said: "Hello."

Well, he really said the Aramaic version of it. But it meant hello.

It also meant Peace.

This is recounted near the end of the fourth Gospel.

Close to the end of all things there is a hello. And we realize that the end of all things is the beginning.

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When I was not yet twenty-five, I had a friend named Luke. Luke was a man close to the earth. He loved the stream near his house. He loved the mountain near the stream. He had many brothers and sisters, and he did not feel the need to populate the air with many words.

One night he was distressed. We were at work, and I could see he was in dis-ease. He breathed uneasily, and something about his eyes was different. I suggested a walk.

Our walk was full of uneasy breathing.

I tried to find the right questions, and he tried to find the right words. Neither of us succeeded. Perhaps some sadnesses are not meant to be worded.

I invited Luke into my flat for a pot of tea. In my flat was Molly, a squeaking guinea pig. As I made the tea, Luke got a carrot and fed it to the squeaking animal with the tiny fingers. He broke small bits of it and fed it to her. The tea took a while to make, and in the time of making, the air had changed The mountain and the stream had returned.

While the guinea pig did not speak, I think the guinea pig really did speak. She said, "Hello."

I am telling the truth when I say that with the welcome of a small animal, Luke's eyes had returned to the softness of the earth he loved.

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There is something calming in a simple greeting. It breathes "You are here" and "So am I." And therefore it says, "You are here and so am I, so we are here together."

It is saying "Welcome to the place where you may not want to be."

The disciples in the upper room. My friend Siobhan and her need for pilgrimage. Me in a kitchen brewing an uneasy pot of tea, thinking I had to solve something.

Hello. And welcome. Hello again.

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I did not tell the full truth earlier on.

The woman in Belfast did not say, "I hate you."

She said: "I fucking hate you."

This is very true. It was loud enough for many people to hear. It was only twenty-four months ago. It is true that she said it.

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Hello.

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Prayer is God who works all things in people.

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I was not sure that my Belfast story is a good story to tell when talking about prayer. However, I think it is a story we must tell if we want to talk about prayer.

There is a woman who is not breathing. She is hacking dry, dusty air into a heart that is choking. There is a child who knows things a child should not know- too early, too young; too little loving, too much sadness.

I believe that woman was praying. She was saying: "I hate this."

If this is not prayer, then nothing is. Prayer is when our yearning overtakes and makes itself known in all its fullness, in all its emptiness. Prayer is God who works all things. Jesus, I hope this prayer was answered.

If you have never felt like this, then surely you are not far from someone who has.

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At the end of all things is a simple hello. Then we realize that this is just the beginning, and the beginning always begins in welcome, has always begun in welcome, and has begun already. We are welcomed into our upper room of fear, into the dry-lung of dusty breathing, into the flaccid place of our feeble attempts. We are faced with our own fierce hatreds, and we are welcomed, welcomed, welcomed by the One who is prayer, by the One who is welcome, by the One who always says: "Hello."

~Padraig O Tuama