Reflection: Gratitude in the Wilderness of the Heart

“They forgot the God who was their savior, who had done such great things in Egypt…” (Psalm 78:42, Grail Translation)

Lord, how often I find my heart mirrored in Your people of old — wandering in the wilderness, still unsatisfied though surrounded by miracles. You rained down manna from heaven, opened the rock to give them drink, and still they murmured. I see that same restlessness in myself. I pray, I cry out for Your mercy, yet when it comes in a form I did not expect, I hesitate to receive it. My heart rebels in secret, wishing for a different portion, another path, a gentler cross.

In Psalm 78, You show how deeply You longed to draw Israel into gratitude. You fed them not to satisfy their cravings, but to teach them to hunger rightly, to hunger for You. Yet they wanted meat when You offered manna, water without thirst, safety without trust. I am no different. I ask for light but complain when it blinds me. I ask for grace but shrink from its fire. I want to follow You but keep looking back to Egypt — to what is familiar, to what feeds the ego and spares me from dependence.

Still, You are patient. “Yet He was full of compassion; He forgave their sin and did not destroy them.” (Psalm 78:38) You look upon my ingratitude and still open Your hand. Every trial, every silence, every delay, is a form of Your mercy, drawing me away from idols of self and back toward the living God. Even when I resist, You work to make me free.

To live in thanksgiving is to live in faith. Gratitude transforms everything it touches. It turns the bitter water sweet, the wilderness into a place of encounter, the bread of tears into the bread of life. It silences complaint and opens the heart to wonder. When I say “thank You” for what wounds me, something in me shifts — I begin to see not absence but presence, not punishment but purification.

So I must learn to bless all things that come from Your hand. If I am given joy, let me praise You. If I am given darkness, let me praise You still. For You are my portion, not what You give, not what You take away. You Yourself are the manna that feeds me in the desert.

Lord, forgive my murmuring heart. Teach me to receive what You offer without resentment or fear. Let me cease craving anything but You. When I find myself wandering through dry places, let me remember Your steadfast love and give thanks. Let my whole being become a psalm of gratitude, sung in the wilderness until it leads me home.

I will remember the works of the Lord.

I will meditate on all You have done.

You are the rock of my salvation, 

and Your mercy endures forever.

Meditation on Psalm 30: The Hidden Song of Praise

It is the Lord who has had pity on me more times than I can number. When I look back, I see that my life has been sustained not by my strength but by His mercy. Each deliverance has been quiet, gentle, and undeserved. So my heart compels me to echo the psalm: “Sing psalms to the Lord, you who love Him, give thanks to His holy Name.”

The psalmist teaches that thanksgiving is not the response of a single moment but the shape of a life. It is not only when joy floods the heart that praise rises up, but also when the soul sits in the shadow of loss. Praise becomes the soul’s steady breath, the one thing that endures when all else falls away.

To live in this spirit is to offer oneself as a sacrifice of praise. It is to turn every circumstance, every breath, every sorrow into an altar. Even when the world does not see or when human hope dissolves, the song of the heart must continue. The psalms then become more than words; they become the movement of love within the soul.

The hidden life of praise is precious to God. It bears the fragrance of humility. When a soul sings unseen, its voice joins the ceaseless hymn of the angels. Such praise purifies the heart, driving out complaint and fear, teaching us to see mercy even in affliction.

“May nothing I do or think be displeasing in His eyes.” This is the prayer of those who know that the gaze of God is life itself. To please Him is not to perform, but to live transparently before Him, to let love and trust become the measure of all things.

If my life remains hidden, if no human eye ever beholds its fruit, let my soul still sing psalms to God unceasingly. For praise is the one work that endures beyond death. In the silence of obscurity, the heart that blesses God becomes a temple filled with His presence.

So I will sing while there is breath within me. I will let the psalms rise from the quiet places of the heart until they become prayer itself, until every moment speaks only one word:

Glory to Thee, O Lord, in all things.

Meditation: Awakened by Mercy

How mysterious is the love of God that rouses us even in our weakness. “The Lord upholds all who fall and raises all who are bowed down” (Psalm 145). In the silence of early morning, one feels the truth of these words not as doctrine but as presence. He who neither slumbers nor sleeps keeps watch over His child (Psalm 121). Even in the stillness of rest, His Spirit breathes within us. To awaken with gratitude is to recognize that our very existence is upheld by mercy, that our breath and our being are sustained moment by moment by His will of love.

In the Psalms, thanksgiving is never separate from remembrance. The soul recalls the countless deliverances of the Lord; how He drew us out of the deep waters, how He turned mourning into dancing, how He restored our soul when all seemed lost. “Bless the Lord, O my soul, and forget not all His benefits” (Psalm 103). When the memory of His past mercies fills the heart, faith is born anew. Gratitude becomes the purest form of prayer, the fragrance that rises from the altar of the heart even before the lips can speak.

Such gratitude transforms the day before it begins. The one who awakes with thanksgiving already walks in the light. Even sorrow or fatigue becomes a hidden offering. “O Lord, You are my strength, my song, and my salvation” (Psalm 118). Every trial, every uncertainty, every breath can be transfigured into praise when the soul lives in remembrance of His mercy.

To awaken early, moved by joy and gratitude, is to share in the rhythm of creation itself, which never ceases to praise its Maker. “From the rising of the sun to its setting, the name of the Lord is to be praised” (Psalm 113). The dawn becomes a sacrament of renewal, the silent witness to the faithfulness of God who makes all things new.

So let the heart rise before the sun, and let thanksgiving be its first utterance. For in the early hour when light first touches the world, the soul glimpses what the psalmist knew so well, that mercy is the morning star, and gratitude its song.

Meditation on Psalms 146-150: "Let All That Breathes Praise the Lord"

The weakness of the body often becomes a mirror for the weakness of faith. Illness turns the gaze inward and anxiety multiplies in the heart like shadows at dusk. Thoughts swirl around the self, fears of hidden sickness, unfinished work, the disappointment of others. What begins as physical pain becomes a deeper affliction, a narrowing of vision that forgets the light of God. Yet it is here, at the edge of this self-concern, that the psalms lift their cry: “Praise the Lord, my soul” (Psalm 146).

The psalms 146 to 150 form a single ascent, a final doxology that gathers all of creation into one hymn of thanksgiving. They teach the soul to turn from the prison of self toward the freedom of praise. The sick body, the anxious heart, the weary spirit, all are invited to join this great song. “I will sing to the Lord all my life, make music to my God while I live” (Psalm 146). In this promise lies the secret of peace. Praise becomes not a feeling but a choice of love, a surrender that rises even from the bed of pain.

When the strength of youth fades and every task feels beyond reach, pride is stripped away. The false belief that endurance or work gives life its meaning is undone. The psalms remind the heart that God alone sustains the soul: “It is the Lord who keeps faith forever, who gives bread to the hungry, who sets prisoners free” (Psalm 146). Illness, when accepted in trust, becomes a teacher of humility. It draws the heart to lean entirely upon the mercy of God. The voice that once strained to do more now whispers only the Name, Jesus have mercy.

To forget oneself is not to despise the body but to let it be transfigured through love. When every breath becomes prayer, weakness becomes the rhythm of grace. “Praise the Lord from the heavens, praise him in the heights” (Psalm 148). The sick and the whole, the angels and the dust alike are bound in one act of worship. Nothing is too small to glorify the Creator. The groan of pain can become praise, the sigh of exhaustion can become song.

At the end of the Psalter, the final words ring out: “Let everything that breathes praise the Lord” (Psalm 150). This is the call to live entirely for God, whether standing or prostrate, in labor or in rest, in health or in affliction. Praise is not silenced by suffering but purified by it. In the heart that forgets itself, that ceases to measure its worth by strength or success, a new life begins.

So let the soul, even in frailty, take up the psalter’s final cry. Let the body’s weakness become the temple of His mercy. Let the Jesus Prayer be the breath that sustains the day. And if all else fails, if even words are lost, let one act remain, the silent praise of trust. For in that stillness the Lord Himself sings through the soul, “Praise the Lord, my soul, while I live.”

Meditation on Psalm 116 - “The Grace of Waiting”

I love the Lord, for He has heard

the cry of my appeal;

for He turned His ear to me

in the day when I called Him.

There comes a time when strength fades and even the will to rise seems exhausted. The soul feels worn thin by years of striving, by battles inward and outward, by hopes deferred and questions unanswered. Yet in such weariness another kind of strength quietly begins to reveal itself, the steadfastness of God’s love.

When I look back, I see how every season of affliction has been carried by unseen hands. When I fell into discouragement, He sent His angels to lift me. When my heart grew cold, He warmed it again with the fire of His mercy. The path has not been without wounds, yet each wound has become a doorway to His compassion.

“I was helpless, so He saved me,” the psalmist sings. These words pierce the heart, for they uncover the truth that we are never left to ourselves. The Lord bends low to those who can no longer lift their heads. He delights not in our strength but in our surrender, in the soul that waits, trusting His Providence when nothing is clear.

How mysterious is the grace of waiting. To wait is to love without grasping, to rest without seeing. It is the soul’s silent “Amen” to God’s will, spoken through tears and endurance. Those who wait for the Lord are not idle; their stillness is filled with faith. In that waiting His angels minister, unseen yet near. The saints intercede, their compassion born of shared suffering.

“I will walk in the presence of the Lord in the land of the living.” Each breath becomes a prayer of gratitude. I am still here, sustained by His mercy, steadied by His hand. The years that seemed lost are gathered in His light; the broken pieces are held together in His peace.

What remains now is thanksgiving. Not for what has been easy, but for the hidden grace in every hardship, for the God who never turned away, for the strength that came only through weakness, for the love that endures when all else falls away.

O Lord, I am Thy servant, the child of Thy handmaid.

Thou hast loosened my bonds.

To Thee will I offer a sacrifice of praise

and call upon Thy holy Name.

In gratitude I bow before Thee,

for even in my affliction Thou hast been my joy.

Let my waiting become worship

and my weariness a psalm of love.

Meditation on Psalm 100 - “A Sacrifice of Praise in Weariness”

The soul that has been wearied by suffering learns anew the meaning of praise. The cry that once rose from pain becomes the very song that gives glory to God. “Cry out with joy to the Lord, all the earth,” says the psalm, and yet how strange this command seems to one bowed down by illness and fatigue. But the heart that has passed through affliction comes to know that true joy is not born of ease. It springs from the recognition that we belong to Him, that even in weakness we are held.

You have felt the heaviness of life press upon you, body and soul. The hours of darkness seemed long, and trust in Providence at times fragile. Yet within this very struggle, the mystery of divine faithfulness is revealed. Out of the depth of exhaustion, strength quietly returns. From the poverty of spirit, thanksgiving is born. This is the hidden alchemy of grace, that the soul’s lament becomes its hymn.

“Know that he, the Lord, is God,” the psalm continues, as if to remind the heart that He alone is Creator and we are His. To serve Him with gladness is not to deny our suffering but to let love transform it. Gratitude then ceases to be an emotion and becomes a sacrifice, the offering of a tired heart that yet blesses His name.

Go, then, into His courts, not by outward steps but by inward surrender. Bring to Him not strength but frailty, not abundance but the emptiness that only His love can fill. There, in the quiet of His mercy, even the weary find rest and begin to sing again:

“Indeed, how good is the Lord,

eternal His merciful love.

He is faithful from age to age.”

Let this be your song in the night, your sacrifice of praise, your act of trust. For the heart that gives thanks in its weariness becomes the temple where divine joy is born.

Meditation on Psalm 90 “O Lord, You Have Been Our Refuge”

When I pray this psalm, light pierces the heart—gentle, sorrowful, and clear. I see before me the fleeting breath of my life, the faces of those I have loved and lost, and the fragile moments that have slipped like water through my fingers. Time gathers us all into its tide, carrying away youth, strength, and every illusion of permanence. We are swept away like grass that blossoms in the morning and withers by nightfall. It is humbling, even terrifying, to face how brief and uncertain our days truly are.

Yet within this realization, something eternal awakens. The psalm is not a lament of despair but a cry of trust: “O Lord, You have been our refuge from generation to generation.” Beneath the decay and transience of this world lies a steadfast Presence—One who is before all things and in whom nothing is lost. Every sorrow, every fleeting joy, every act of love entrusted to Him is gathered into a radiance that does not fade.

In the darkness of suffering, when the heart feels old before its time and the weight of mortality presses heavily, the Lord whispers through the psalm: “Make us know the shortness of our life, that we may gain wisdom of heart.” The wisdom He offers is not the cold acceptance of death but the luminous peace that flows from communion with Him who is Life itself. In His gaze, the brevity of our days becomes the doorway to eternity.

So I pray:

Teach me to measure my life not by length of years but by depth of love.

Let every sorrow drive me more deeply into Your mercy.

Let every remembrance of the dead become a confession of trust in Your resurrection.

You do not abandon the work of Your hands; You redeem it in Your boundless compassion.

When the shadows lengthen and the final evening comes, may I rest in You who were my dwelling all along.

And when the dawn of Your glory breaks, may all whom I have loved and all for whom I have prayed rise with me to behold the light that no darkness can overcome.

“Let the favor of the Lord be upon us;

give success to the work of our hands,

give success to the work of our hands.”

The Fool's Portion is Small in His Eyes

The thread that connects the thoughts of St. Isaac the Syrian's second homily is thankfulness to God.  How we receive the gifts of God has great significance.  One need only think of the story of the ten lepers in the Gospel.  Only one returns to give thanks to the Giver for the healing he received.  Lack of thanksgiving is akin to dishonesty, St. Isaac states.  It shows that one does not grasp the true worth of what one has received and so not worthy themselves of receiving something greater.  With the eyes of faith, one must grasp the generosity of the healer, even if the cure is painful.  To fail to acknowledge such goodness or generosity or to resist the gift only increase the torment of the affliction.  If we receive what the Lord gives us with true gratitude - whether painful or consoling - He will not fail to pour greater graces upon us for our salvation.  Lacking such an understanding of things, God's gifts seem small in one's eyes - thus making one a "fool".

The thanksgiving of the recipient incites the giver to give gifts greater than the first.  He that returns no thanks in small matters is a dissembler and dishonest in greater ones also.  If a man is ill and he recognizes his ailment, his healing will be easy.  If he confesses his pain, he draws nigh to cure.  The pangs of the unyielding heart will be multiplied, and the patient who resists his physician amplifies his torment.  There is no unpardonable sin, save the unrepented one.  Nor does any gift remain without addition, save that which is received without thanksgiving.  The fool's portion is small in his own eyes.

St. Isaac the Syrian

Ladder of Divine Ascent - Step 28 on Prayer

             As we noted in the beginning of our study of The Ladder, the goal of all spiritual labors is communion with God.  We do not seek an abstract vision of the Divine, nor do we labor for a legal verdict declaring us "not guilty."  Rather, we aim at communion and union; we set our sights on the true, intimate knowledge of God which is "life eternal" (John 17:3).  According to St. John, prayer must be looked at as both the means to and the achievement of this knowledge.

            The goal of prayer is God.  This is important to note as we begin.  In prayer and through prayer we seek Him.  How easy it is for us to reduce prayer to the fulfillment of some external "rule of prayer" which must be completed before we can continue on with the fulfillment of our other "external" requirements.  The great tragedy of our spiritual lives is that prayer itself can become part of this "world and its ways" rather than an abandonment of this world so as to pursue the next.  "Rise from the love of the world and the love of pleasure.  Put care aside, strip your mind, refuse your body.  Prayer, after all, is a turning away from the world, visible and invisible.  What have I in heaven?  What have I longed for on earth besides You?  Nothing except to cling to You in undistracted prayer.  Wealth pleases some, glory others, possession others, but what I want is to cling to God and to put the hopes of my dispassion in Him"  Understood in this light, prayer thus is itself a means of purification and of judgment.  "War reveals the love of a soldier for his king, and the time and practice of prayer show up a monk's love for God.  So your prayer shows where you stand."  Prayer is a mirror, showing to us the true nature of our desires and of our love.  If we love God, we will love to pray.  The stronger the love for God, the greater our hearts will be drawn to the dialog of prayer, the more He will be the object of our thoughts and desires, the more He will consume us and become the end of our struggles.

            Prayer has its external aspects: the words, the discipline, the posture, the knots on the prayer rope. But these external aspects must find their realization in the internal state of our soul.  St. John outlines a continuous method of prayer which incorporates both of these: "Get ready for your set time of prayer by unceasing prayer in your soul."  For the true struggler for God, prayer is not episodic; it is a way of life.  Its external expression changes: sometimes it is the reading of psalms, other times the singing of hymns, still further it may be the quiet saying of the Jesus prayer or the recollection of God in the fulfillment of our daily tasks.  Gradually, prayer itself establishes its own rhythm in our lives.  In the beginning we force ourselves to pray; in the end it is prayer itself which forces us.

            For those who are beginning the spiritual life, prayer requires hard work.  Here the external aspects of prayer dominate.  We can only learn to prayer one way: by doing it.  And by doing lots of it . . . over and over again, training our hearts to recognize and feel the words spoken by our mouths and considered in our minds.  We force ourselves to practice.  Very often this seems strange and foreign to us.  It does not seem natural; we totter and stumble.  We finish our prayers and feel as if we have simply said "words" without really praying them.  We may often feel "hypocritical" in our prayers, as if they are external and therefore fake.  This is the beginning of prayer.  If we persevere, pushing ourselves to say the words and urging our hearts to join the mind and the mouth, prayer will become internalized.  Prayer will not be something which comes from the outside, but it will come from the inside out.  The words will flow from our hearts, rather than off the page.  We will still say and think the same words, but these words will be ours, rather than someone else's.  Our mouths, minds and hearts will be one.  Our being will be united in prayer.  This is the middle stage of prayer.  If we persevere in this, not allowing our hearts to become distracted, the experience of prayer becomes so much a part of us that the words themselves fade away and prayer becomes ecstasy and the immediate presence of God.  This is the third and final stage; this is deification, the heights of theosis, to which only the saints rise in this life.

            As we struggle to pray, there are several attitudes which we must be careful to maintain.  The first is humility.  Satan tries to rob us of our humility during prayer by taking away from us the simplicity necessary to true prayer.  He divides us by getting us to think about ourselves even as we are praying.  We observe ourselves from the outside, thinking about how well we are praying, how long we have been praying, etc.  To pray is to lose ourselves in God; it is to abandon the pursuit of self by pursuing God.  Satan also tries to rob us of our humility after we pray by telling us how good we are and how effective and powerful our prayers are for others.  Once again, notice how he tempts us to externalize our prayer and to focus not on God, but on ourselves as "pray-ers"  The truth is: we cannot pursue God so long as we think about ourselves.

            Another important attitude necessary for true prayer is gratitude.  St. John advises: "Heartfelt thanksgiving should have first place in our book of prayer."  All prayer to be true prayer must be eucharistic.  This means that prayer must flow out of a thankful heart.  Before it becomes intercession, prayer is first a response to grace received.  A thankful heart is of necessity driven to give thanks.  It cannot remain silent, but is must communicate its thankfulness to the Source of all blessings.

            Still further, for our prayer to lead to union with God, it is always necessary for it to be offered in a spirit of contrition.  St. John notes: "Even if you have climbed the whole ladder of the virtues, pray still for the forgiveness of sins."  If we ever appear in God's presence and think that we belong there, if we ever lose sight of the priority of grace and our need for it at all times, then we have lost prayer.  It is for certain that we are not talking to God but only to ourselves or worse yet to Satan who has the capacity of transforming himself into an angel of light.  Contrition is the key to being delivered from spiritual delusion.  Those who pray in a spirit of repentance are not easily fooled by Satan and his demonic hosts.

            Finally, and perhaps most important of all, we must understand that prayer is not something gained simply from the teaching of others.  St. John writes: "You cannot learn to see just because someone tells you to do so.  For that, you require your own natural power of sight.  In the same way, you cannot discover from the teaching of others the beauty of prayer.  Prayer has its own special teacher in God.  He grants the prayer of him who prays.  And He blesses the years of the just."           

1-3            Prayer defined.

            Prayer is by nature a dialog and a union of man with God.  Its effect is to hold the world together.  It achieves reconciliation with God.

            Prayer is the mother and daughter of tears.  It is an expiation of sin, a bridge across temptation, a bulwark against affliction.  It wipes out conflict, is the work of angels, and is the nourishment of all bodiless beings.  Prayer is future gladness, action without end, wellspring of virtues, source of grace, hidden progress, food of the soul, enlightenment of the mind, an axe against despair, hope demonstrated, sorrow done away with.  It is wealth for monks, treasure of hermits, anger diminished.  It is a mirror of progress, a demonstration of success, evidence of one's condition, the future revealed, a sign of glory.  For the man who really prays it is the court, the judgment hall, the tribunal of the Lord - and this prior to the judgment that is to come.

4-18            St. John then describes the necessary preparation for true prayer, the essential attitudes that help to foster prayer and the perseverance required to sustain prayer.

            Those of us wishing to stand before our King and God and to speak with Him should not rush into this without some preparation, lest it should happen that - seeing us from afar without arms and without the dress appropriate to those who appear before the King - He should command His servants and His slaves to lay hold of us, to drive us out of His sight, to tear up our petitions and to throw them in our faces.

            When you set out to appear before the Lord, let the garment of your soul be woven throughout with the thread of wrongs no longer remembered.  Otherwise, prayer will be useless to you.

            Pray in all simplicity.  The publican and the prodigal son were reconciled to God by a single utterance.

            . . . heartfelt thanksgiving should have first place in our book of prayer.  Next should be confession and genuine contrition of soul.  After that should come our request to the universal King.

            In your prayers there is no need for high-flown words, for it is the simple and unsophisticated babblings of children that have more often won the heart of the Father in heaven.

            Try not to talk excessively in your prayer, in case your mind is distracted by the search for words.  One word from the publican sufficed to placate God, and a single utterance saved the thief.  Talkative prayer frequently distracts the mind and deludes it, whereas brevity makes for concentration.

            However pure you may be, do not be forward in your dealings with God.  Approach Him rather in all humility, and you will be given still more boldness.  And even if you have climbed the whole ladder of the virtues, pray still for the forgiveness of sins.  Heed Paul's cry regarding sinners "of whom I am the first" (1 Tim 1:15).

            Make the effort to raise up, or rather, to enclose your mind within the words of your prayer; and if, like a child, it gets tired and falters, raise it up again.  The mind, after all, is naturally unstable, but the God who can do everything can also give it firm endurance.  Persevere in this, therefore, and do not grow weary; and He who sets a boundary to the sea of the mind will come to you too during your prayer and will say, "Thus far you shall come, and no farther" (Job 38:11).  Spirit cannot be bound, but where He is found everything yields to the Creator of spirit.

19-37            In the following paragraphs, St. John describes the various stages of prayer, those things which lead to its degradation, appropriate forms of posture and when they should be used, the ultimate goal of prayer, and the value of prayer in and of itself - regardless of whether or not it offers us any consolation.  He also speaks of how a monk must conduct himself at the times before prayer and the importance of being faithful to designated times for prayer. 

            The beginning of prayer is the expulsion of distractions from the very start by a single thought; the middle stage is the concentration on what is being said or thought; its conclusion is rapture in the Lord.

           

            If you are careful to train your mind never to wander, it will stay by you even at mealtimes.  But if you allow it to stray freely, then you will never have it beside you.

            There is a difference between the tarnish of prayer, its disappearance, the robbery of it, and its defilement.  Prayer is tarnished when we stand before God, our minds seething with irrelevancies.  It disappears when we are led off into useless cares.  It is robbed when our thoughts stray without our realization of the fact.  And it is defiled when we are in any way under attack.

            If we happen not to be alone at the time of prayer, let us form within ourselves the demeanor of someone who prays.  But if the servants of praise are not sharing our company, we may openly put on the appearance of those at prayer.  For among the weak, the mind often conforms to the body.

            Total contrition is necessary for everyone, but particularly for those who have come to the King to obtain forgiveness of their sins.

            Rise from love of the world and love of pleasure.  Put care aside, strip your mind, refuse your body.  Prayer, after all, is a turning away from the world, visible and invisible.  What have I in heaven?  Nothing.  What have I longed for on earth besides You?  Nothing except simply to cling always to You in undistracted prayer.  Wealth pleases some, glory others, possessions others, but what I want is to cling to God and to put the hopes of my dispassion in Him.

            Our good Redeemer, by speedily granting what is asked, draws to His love those who are grateful.  But He keeps ungrateful souls praying a long time before Him, hungering and thirsting for what they want, since a badly trained dog rushes off as soon as it is given bread and leaves the giver behind.

            After a long spell of prayer, do not say that nothing has been gained, for you have already achieved something.  For, after all, what higher good is there than to cling to the Lord and to persevere in unceasing union with Him?

            Get ready for your set time of prayer by unceasing prayer in your soul.  In this way, you will soon make progress.   I have observed that those who were outstanding in obedience and who tried as far as possible to keep in mind the thought of God were in full control of their minds and wept copiously as soon as they stood in prayer, for holy obedience had prepared them for this.

            War reveals the love of a soldier for his king, and the time and practice of prayer show up a monk's love for God.  So your prayer shows where you stand.  Indeed, theologians say that prayer is a monk's mirror.

            Someone who is occupied with some task and continues with it at the hour of prayer is being fooled by the demons, for these thieves aim to steal one hour after another from us.

38-48            Our prayer must be examined closely to determine its true quality and power.  As prayer develops, John states, there is less need for words or images.  Both can lead to distraction.

            A child is examined each day without fail regarding what he has learned from his teacher.  And it is reasonable to ask that there be a reckoning of each prayer we have undertaken, in order that we may have an idea of the power we have received from God.  You should see to this.  And when you have prayed soberly, you will soon have to cope with bouts of ill temper, something our enemies aim for.

            When a man has found the Lord, he no longer has to use words when he is praying, for the Spirit Himself will intercede for him with groans that cannot be uttered (Rom 8:26).

            Do not form sensory images during prayer, for distraction will certainly follow.

                       

49-64            We must learn, St. John tells us, to seize the moment when the Spirit beckons us to prayer, especially when given an abundance of fervor and contrition.  When in the midst of prayer we must drive off temptations and anything, good or bad, that might distract us or draw us to some other activity.

            Do not stop praying as long as, by God's grace, the fire and the water have not been exhausted, for it may happen that never again in your whole life will you have such a chance to ask for the forgiveness of your sins.

            A man stands before an earthly monarch.  But he turns his face away and talks to the enemies of the king, and the king will be offended.  In the same way, the Lord will be offended by someone who at prayer time turns away towards unclean thoughts.  So if the dog keeps coming, drive him off with a stick and never give in to him, however much he may persist.

            The hour of prayer is no time for thinking over necessities, nor even spiritual tasks, because you may lose the better part (Luke 10:42).

            If you are always in dialog with the King in regard to your enemies, take heart whenever they attack you.  A long struggle will not be necessary for you, for they will soon give up of their own accord.  These unholy beings are afraid that you may earn a crown as a result of your battle against them through prayer, and besides, when scourged by prayer they will run away as though from a fire.

           

65-66            God, the true Teacher of prayer.  

            Always be brave, and God will teach you your prayer.

            You cannot learn to see just because someone tells you to do so.  For that, you require your own natural power of sight.  In the same way, you cannot discover from the teaching of others the beauty of prayer.  Prayer has its own special teacher in God, who "teaches man knowledge" (Ps. 93:10).  He grants the prayer of him who prays.  And He blesses the years of the just.