On Ash Wednesday this year I felt compelled to make my lenten prayer the Kyrie, a simple prayer that has been prayed by Christians since at least the fifth century.

“Lord, have mercy. Christ have mercy.”

I expected lent to be a long and monotonous season of getting bored of this simple prayer, but I felt the Spirit of God leading me that way so I agreed. I did not expect to be in such gratitude for the crafted prayer the Church has passed down to me.

I had no way of knowing these six little words would have so much to say, that they carried so much weight. They offered me words when the groans grew tired.

When a friendship that was perceived to be beyond repair had to die, leaving broken hearts and empty space in its place.

“Lord, have mercy. Christ have mercy.”

When mental illness began to bear its ugly head, bringing with it horrid memories of the past and fears of the future.

“Lord, have mercy. Christ have mercy.”

When I found myself unable to stop weeping in the car at the news of a friend’s miscarriage, and all that would mean for them.

“Lord, have mercy. Christ have mercy.”

When I heard the news of my mentor’s miscarriage as I felt the kicks of my own child’s feet so rambunctiously causing my wife joyous discomfort inside her womb. Tears blurred my vision, and fear creeping into my mind.

“Lord, have mercy. Christ have mercy.”

When I received a call that I needed to go be with my wife because she was about to find out her dad had a seizure.

“Lord, have mercy. Christ have mercy.”

When she wept in my arms when we discovered he had two tumors on his brain.

“Lord, have mercy. Christ have mercy.”

When we discovered the same day that the family dog had tumors invading her entire body. She would need to be put down before the week was over.

“Lord, have mercy. Christ have mercy.”

When we wondered fearfully if our son would know his granddaddy if they would even meet.

“Lord, have mercy. Christ have mercy.”

When our baby decides to stop kicking and our breath is held for hours, awaiting his movements again.

“Lord, have mercy. Christ have mercy.”

When I offered Clementine her last rites, a practice I am unsure is allowed to be given to animals and one I had no business doing anyway but was the only one around to offer it.

“Lord, have mercy. Christ have mercy.”

When I sat waiting for one parent to recover from brain surgery in an ICU and learned my mother and sister were in a different hospital seven hours away.

“Lord, have mercy. Christ have mercy.”

When I discovered on my birthday that my father-in-law had the worst type of brain cancer you can get, the prognosis hung in the air as if it was attempting to asphyxiate us all.

“Lord, have mercy. Christ have mercy.”

When I was asked to serve the eucharist to the sick, a task I have no business doing but one only I could do in a Catholic hospital where dogma and disunity forbid sacraments mixing.

“Lord, have mercy. Christ have mercy.”

When I had to leave my family to go work, because poverty does not seem to care who is in the hospital and who is healthy.

“Lord, have mercy. Christ have mercy.”

When our family loses jobs and the community suffers.

“Lord, have mercy. Christ have mercy.”

I did not know the power these words would have for me. I had no way of knowing that they would hold with them a million prayers. I could not have known the tears they would accompany or the sorrows they would echo.

Christ hears our prayers, and he does indeed have mercy on us.

His mercy is found in a community that comes to rescue without needing to be asked. It is found in shared laughter that invades the weeping. It is found in sunsets and pink skies. It is found in ladybugs and bluejays. It is found in hospital chapels where holy water answers obscure birthday wishes. It is found in half a dozen friends who clean your home and scrub your baseboards. It is found in venmo gifts from anonymous friends who know that emergencies cost more than you budgeted for. It is found in patron saints who follow you around seemingly more than grief does. It is found in knowing friends, who have gone through similar pains and offer more in a hug than anyone could offer in a thousand words. It is found in street signs, bakeries, and baby books of peculiar names. It is found in the humor of ICU patients. It is found in kind nurses and competent doctors. It is found in the texts from others in pain. It is found in thankfulness for previous pain which offers more wisdom now than you ever could imagine. It is found in album releases and birthday pies. It is found in confessions of weakness. It is found in those who carry God within them in such tangible ways that you know you are not abandoned.

Lord, have mercy. Christ, have mercy. And let the resurrection be right around the corner.