Open Lips

I talk to myself. When working in the kitchen or thinking hard at the office, speaking some of my thoughts (quietly) aloud helps me stay focused. So one aspect of wearing masks against the coronavirus which I’ve appreciated is that, while masked, no one in the grocery store can see my lips moving while I scan the shelves. The routine mumble about which my family tease me is now muffled by a mask.

Despite my habit of quietly checking in with myself throughout the day, I recently have noticed a disconnect between how comfortably I discuss most aspects of my life and a reluctance I sometimes feel when speaking about God. Each day when I begin Morning Prayer, “O Lord, open my lips, and my mouth will proclaim your praise” meets me at the top of the page. Is this an appropriate prayer? Certainly. So why the niggling discomfort?

I grew up in a context where tagging “praise the Lord” onto just about everything was the right answer and indicated faith that God was generously working in one’s everyday life. That excellent grade on my report card? Praise the Lord! Found the shoes I coveted at a 50% off sale. Praise the Lord! Good weather for our Sunday School picnic. Praise the Lord! Located my missing car keys. Praise the Lord!  

I enthusiastically affirm a God-ward response of gratitude to the regular and astounding graces in all our lives. Praising God is good and right. But I need to watch my own heart to avoid a glib habit. I do not want to “PTL” as a sneaky flag to others of my spirituality or to prove to God that I’m a good girl. So, outside of the liturgy, I notice that I’ve become deeply self-conscious and reluctant about using variations of “Praise the Lord” at all.  

Which brings me back to that uncomfortable petition to “open my lips.” Oh dear. What am I actually praying for?

In late September I drove to the East Kootenays of British Columbia to visit my brother and his family, eager to catch up with them and longing to refresh my soul with mountains and forests. Heavy smoke from the fires in Oregon and Washington states drastically cut visibility for the entire 960 km of my outward journey. I worried whether I would see the mountains at all or be able to breathe in the scent of conifers that I love. Nearing the foothills I could see nothing through the haze. But as I leaned over the steering wheel of my rental car to look for familiar landmarks, hope rose. “Well, I can see Yamnuska!” I said gladly to myself. “Yes, there’s Cascade!” “Ooo, Mount Rundle!” I talked myself joyfully all through the Kootenay Valley, emerging through the cliffs at Radium as a herd of mountain sheep ran beside the road.  

Over the next several days the smoke dissipated, opening clear views to the mountains as we walked and biked and I birdwatched (identifying some species that I’d not seen for many years). Despite being on holiday I woke early each day, not wanting to miss anything. My brother, me, and Oliver the black Lab hiked a trail up into alpine meadows surrounded by dramatic, rocky peaks. There were still wild berries for eating, asters and paintbrush, golden-needled larches and undergrowth in all the colours of fall. When I stopped to breathe deeply, the evergreen smells made me joyful to the point of tears. 

The drive back east through the Kootenay and Bow River valleys was a gallery of autumn glory. Hillsides of glowing yellow aspens, turquoise rivers, fresh snow accenting the angles of the peaks, had me exclaiming at every turn of my journey.  Opening my lips, and proclaiming praise.

Recently, back home in Moose Jaw, my husband, our eldest son, and I spent Saturday morning at nearby Buffalo Pound Lake. We arrived to discover a fog of lake mist that eased to reveal a satiny lake holding flocks of jolly black-and-white buffleheads. On our walk among the amber trees we saw a bald eagle, gulls and waders in the wetland, and a close up view of the resident bison herd. Driving back along the lake, I noticed a dark shape out of the corner of my eye and called to Dean to stop and reverse the vehicle. Thirty yards away through the shrubs, a massive bull moose with enormous antlers stood staring at where we sat in our CRV. Silent behind nearby bushes, we glimpsed a cow moose with a timid calf peeking around her flank.

Exultant, we enthused to each other (“open my lips”) at this rare sighting, which is when first one, then a second white-tailed deer bounded with great leaps across our line of vision, their flashing tails making them look like can-can dancers just jazzing up the show.  (“My mouth will proclaim your praise.”)

Gerard Manley Hopkins famously wrote, “The world is charged with the grandeur of God. It will flame out, like shining from shook foil.” It will flame out, like the joy that flames in my throat.  

How shall I, unmasked, praise God’s work in and around me?  I’m still sitting with that prayerfully. But, for me, open lips begin with open eyes.