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A prayer for the very tired, for those bound by skin and knitted bones; for the wondering and wandering and watching. A prayer for those hoping that tomorrow comes with kindness, comes with softness, comes at all. A prayer for those who thought they’d have shaken off ennui by now; that weekends would be a way to finally catch up to the dangling carrot but Sunday leaves you feeling vaguely disheveled within, past where the organization books can reach. A prayer for those who don’t know how it’s possible that this many years have passed since you were born. A prayer for those who are waiting on news, on someone, on relief. A prayer for those who are waiting at all. A prayer for those who drive hours just to park their car, walk up to the ocean, the roving sound of the surf, and promptly forget their to-do list, take a deep breath and, for one precious afternoon, bravely engage in the simple and naked act of being.

May you discover that life goes on. Not in the way we’ve heard it sarcastically said—like, life is hard, there’s nothing to do about it—no, I mean, may you discover with joy and resounding comfort that life continues. We get to keep living. Even after the worst things.

I recently heard someone say that, no matter what news he gets, he’s trained his spirit to react with gratitude to God for what he is going to do. This includes bad news. I thought about it. I nodded quietly, because this guy must know. He must know that life goes on. Even when something objectively bad happens, we get to experience life. The seed of potential still lays in the soil of our days. And so it must be from this knowing that this guy can respond in gratitude.

Because life goes on. We still get to read prose that changes our breathing—even when we are suffering—and isn’t that something.

I remember when I was going through a divorce, I had the luxury of escaping my little world. I fled west to my family in California, my own version of the Gold Rush. But instead of gold, I was diligently mining my days for anonymity, peace, a break from running into people who had known me forever, but never like this. Never divorced and profoundly humiliated, haunted by the rumors of who my husband had been sleeping with, rumors that were perforating my little community. I’d sing in church and wonder who knew. So I finally just left. I bought a one-way ticket and figured I’d come back when I had to. I hoped it wasn’t soon.

My brother’s house was on a mountain and it got cool at night. But it’s California and, along with choosing to live where winter comes regularly, nobody believes in indoor heating, so my room was cold. I remember staying up late—another aspect of my own Gold Rush, but this time driving me to avoid the moments of quiet before sleep claims you. Because I didn’t know if I could be alone inside my head like that. I didn’t know if sleep would rescue me soon enough, so I stayed up and read for as long as my eyes would stay open. I needed to avert staring inward, sizing myself up each night like a blind date I knew wouldn’t go anywhere the second they sat down. But now they’re sipping wine slowly and perusing a menu while abbreviating the word appetizer. And instead of yelling check, please!, I’m trying to catch the eye of sleep, begging her to please come take me away.

I’d stay up while everyone else was asleep, the house having been quiet for hours already, my only company a novel, a story that had nothing to do with my own life. And I will never forget reading a few particular lines from the book, The Help; innocent lines about first love, a boy meeting a girl, the latter getting swept off her feet:

“...out of the blue, he kissed me. Right in the middle of the…Hotel Restaurant, he kissed me so slowly with an open mouth and every single thing in my body-my skin, my collarbone, the hollow backs of my knees, everything inside of me filled up with light.” (Kathryn Stockett, The Help)

Even now, reading those lines brings me right back to that little cold room on that mountain, clutching a book while nestled in blankets and pausing because I felt something. And it was, for once in a very long time, something that didn’t hurt. I could feel the kiss. I kept reading about how even the hollow backs of her knees were filled with light and knew exactly what she meant. My breathing changed at the beauty the words illuminated. My pulse quickened, I remembered hope. I thought perhaps I will know that feeling again—not just through a novel. It was strange, an odd sort of grace that came to me late in the night while dodging myself and escaping into a story. It was a clue: life goes on. Hope finds us again.

And now I need to tell you this. I haven’t attended a baby shower in over five years, not since my own son, Luca, died right before he was due. I figured I could just quietly never attend one again, and I was okay with that. Hardly anyone would even notice, and really, why force myself to deal with some feelings if I don’t absolutely have to?

But a dear girl in my community is very pregnant. She hasn’t been here as long as most of us and a different community threw her a baby shower. But we wanted to bless her, too. And by “we,” I actually sincerely mean “we”—I’m including myself. So last week I threw her a baby shower. I made a lot of food and cleaned my house (the main floor, anyway, lest you really wonder what has happened to me) and invited some kind women. I completely forgot to buy plates and cups and flatware, but I just used my own and hoped people would appreciate the weight of porcelain plates and real silverware and might even be fooled into thinking I’d made a choice in the matter. My friend brought over some decorations—I’m talking baby booties to top the cupcakes and festive garland to hang over my kitchen table. And, this is the part that is miraculous: I felt fine. Totally fine. Happy to host, happy to bless our friend, happy to share in community. Five years ago, I never would have believed this could be.

A woman I know recently shared how she had been in terrible pain and wheelchair bound for years. Her disease was medically documented and considered incurable. I don’t know what you think about this kind of supernatural stuff, but she had someone pray for her and walked away pain free. Walked away. She shared about her immense joy and disbelief with each step she took, and my eyes grew misty with relief for her. She had been in a prison of pain for nine years—she had decided that this was her life—that for the first time ever, the days no longer evolved and her story no longer progressed. But then she discovered that life goes on. It does. How she felt and how life looked kept changing. The bad thing that happened absolutely colored her life, but it didn’t freeze it. She discovered, with immense relief, that life goes on.

While cleaning up after the baby shower that night, I took deep breaths and thanked God. This is progress. This is healing, this is growing, this is running when there was a point I couldn’t even walk. This is discovering again that life goes on. And if it does for me, it does for you.

So my prayer for you today, dear person, is this: may you discover that life goes on. In leaps and bounds and small, crawling steps. In laying down and waking up with breath in our lungs. In upward climbs that make us wonder how we will ever do it. In mountains and hills and valleys that move under us over and over again until one day we realize we have traversed a whole landscape and we blink. We look around. We’ve never quite seen this before. Maybe it’s as mundane a thing as a baby shower hosted in your own familiar living room. Maybe nobody else will know it’s a miracle, but you do. And you take it as the evidence it is: life goes on and you get to continue to experience it.

Jessica Latshaw’s Newsletter

Life Goes On