Prayer
There is a prayer I need to wrap myself into and I need to uncover the words.
When I swim, I do laps and each lap is a prayer "The Hail Mary", The Angel of God", "The Our Father", and after 4 laps - one for my Dad - usually a back float, mimicking his strokes. As I do I conjure him back into the afternoon sun out behind our whitewashed garage with the blue plastic liner reflecting upward, his measured breath, his long, lean muscular body, the steadiness - the dependability.
Each of these prayers from my childhood have gotten me through my 60 years. These and then those unrecorded - the pleas of my heart. When my brother Stephen was just a very little guy, of 4 or 5 or so, his body became allergic to itself. Yes his own sweet little body was killing his self. Even today I have a difficult time with those who have imagined illnesses and jump on fads because of this time in my life. My inner soul empathizes with those and yet at the same time insists "get over it, go comfort those you know where death knocks at their door, comfort the children and their families". Our Mom and Dad disappeared for a year or more into the sacristy of the hospital, that which we could not visit and was a frightening, much too bright unknown. My sisters Joan and Theresa and I were sent to live with relatives. Luckily Joan and I went to live with my stern maternal grandparents, but for better or perhaps worse Theresa went to live with my aunt and uncle who years later cut all ties with my mom.
At my grandparents I learned to knit, harvest, can and all sorts of practical things that a girl from the early 1900's should know. I also, as in most good English novels from the WWII era, learned of secret hiding places, magical coins, and gardens. There was a weekly rosary vigil. It seemed as if my grandmother's small living room of reflecting mirror, wallpaper, brass door knockers, and velvet cushions suddenly overflowed with loving kin all tuned into the radio broadcast of Bishop Sheen and then the nightly rosary from the Cathedral. I now realize that it was important that a distant voice led our prayers. Who of us had strength to lead so clothed in fear the way we were? We needed confident hope and faith to guide us.
And this is what I remember, a close community, a nightly belief, my brother lived and thrived - a robust man even today. So this is what I believe: a community of love and prayer and belief expressed openly can sustain and allow those we pray for to have strength and to live.
This is where I find myself now. My husband struggles. I struggle. And I think of Mary - she is a young teen confronted with an unplanned pregnancy. She is forced to give birth far away from home. Her child, as it always is, is a gift - but in this case a gift that brings forth the unexpected. He is smart, otherworldly, compassionate, disruptive to convention, he vanishes into a desert and then upon his return brings forth crowds. Where is his father, where is her strength? How is this happening? And then, perhaps most heart breaking, he is declared a criminal against the state and murdered before her eyes. She keeps this all in her heart.
And as I did over 40 years ago, it is to Mary I pray. This path is not one I choose. It is not one we choose. Please mother lend us your strength, keep close our hearts.
When I swim, I do laps and each lap is a prayer "The Hail Mary", The Angel of God", "The Our Father", and after 4 laps - one for my Dad - usually a back float, mimicking his strokes. As I do I conjure him back into the afternoon sun out behind our whitewashed garage with the blue plastic liner reflecting upward, his measured breath, his long, lean muscular body, the steadiness - the dependability.
Each of these prayers from my childhood have gotten me through my 60 years. These and then those unrecorded - the pleas of my heart. When my brother Stephen was just a very little guy, of 4 or 5 or so, his body became allergic to itself. Yes his own sweet little body was killing his self. Even today I have a difficult time with those who have imagined illnesses and jump on fads because of this time in my life. My inner soul empathizes with those and yet at the same time insists "get over it, go comfort those you know where death knocks at their door, comfort the children and their families". Our Mom and Dad disappeared for a year or more into the sacristy of the hospital, that which we could not visit and was a frightening, much too bright unknown. My sisters Joan and Theresa and I were sent to live with relatives. Luckily Joan and I went to live with my stern maternal grandparents, but for better or perhaps worse Theresa went to live with my aunt and uncle who years later cut all ties with my mom.
At my grandparents I learned to knit, harvest, can and all sorts of practical things that a girl from the early 1900's should know. I also, as in most good English novels from the WWII era, learned of secret hiding places, magical coins, and gardens. There was a weekly rosary vigil. It seemed as if my grandmother's small living room of reflecting mirror, wallpaper, brass door knockers, and velvet cushions suddenly overflowed with loving kin all tuned into the radio broadcast of Bishop Sheen and then the nightly rosary from the Cathedral. I now realize that it was important that a distant voice led our prayers. Who of us had strength to lead so clothed in fear the way we were? We needed confident hope and faith to guide us.
And this is what I remember, a close community, a nightly belief, my brother lived and thrived - a robust man even today. So this is what I believe: a community of love and prayer and belief expressed openly can sustain and allow those we pray for to have strength and to live.
This is where I find myself now. My husband struggles. I struggle. And I think of Mary - she is a young teen confronted with an unplanned pregnancy. She is forced to give birth far away from home. Her child, as it always is, is a gift - but in this case a gift that brings forth the unexpected. He is smart, otherworldly, compassionate, disruptive to convention, he vanishes into a desert and then upon his return brings forth crowds. Where is his father, where is her strength? How is this happening? And then, perhaps most heart breaking, he is declared a criminal against the state and murdered before her eyes. She keeps this all in her heart.
And as I did over 40 years ago, it is to Mary I pray. This path is not one I choose. It is not one we choose. Please mother lend us your strength, keep close our hearts.
Sending prayers, positive thoughts and love to you guys!!!
ReplyDeleteThanks Vicky - love you!
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