”Life's splendor forever lies in wait about each one of us in all its fullness, but veiled from view, deep down, invisible, far off. It is there, though, not hostile, not reluctant, not deaf. If you summon it by the right word, by its right name, it will come." (Franz Kafka 18 October 1921)

My old-world grandmother used to spit three times whenever she’d been particularly boastful or had kvelled overly-loudly. I used to laugh at how anachronistic this seemed in our spanking-new suburban kitchen. I felt like an anthropologist in a primitive culture watching natives flick a finger to repel hostile spirits or deliberately dirty a favored child so jealous djinni didn’t steal it away. Perhaps her habits were the outgrowth of the pogroms her ancestors had immigrated in order to flee.

At Easter vigil, we listen to stories of our faith—the creation, Noah and the flood, Jonah's reluctance to preach to Nineveh, the Israelites flight from Egypt, Ezekiel and the dry bones. In each, God enters human history. God creates the Earth and its creatures and pronounces them good. God lashes out in anger at our spoiling of his creation, but refuses to destroy us utterly. God commissions his prophets and won't take no for an answer. God leads his people through impossible obstacles. God can revive even the deadest soul.

Today, on the Saturday that falls between Good Friday and Easter, Christians wait—liturgically, that is—for Jesus has been crucified, but not yet resurrected. (In real life, they may do other things as they wait: clean guinea pig cages, take children to soccer games, do laundry, hide Easter Eggs.) The first disciples waited because although they had received Jesus' promise that he would triumph and all would be well, after his crucifixion they had no evidence to support this claim. They sat in what they thought was their defeat and puzzled over what to do next.

“God doesn't listen to sinners,” a healed man scolds skeptics in John 9:31. Those who doubt “should not expect to receive anything from the Lord,” insists the writer of James 1:7. So perhaps, then, I pray as hopelessly as an unrequited lover, sending heartfelt notes that will never be opened let alone reciprocated. Perhaps I am singing beneath God's window, while God has closed the shutters and retreated out of earshot.

I refuse to believe this, seeing these passages as obscuring rather than revealing the light of Christ.

I wish I had a deeper prayer life—at least a consistent time set aside for prayer. As it is now, apart from Sundays in church, praying is usually something I do while doing something else.