A Prayer For You

I am sad. I don't want to say why. In fact, I am pretty much afraid to say anything today. Sometimes, people take it upon themselves to to help bloggers out by, um, voicing their opinions in the comments of a particular post. Even worse, when a post gets shared on one of the bigger sharing sites, it can get attacked by the anonymous trolls who seem to thrive under the dank and rotting logs strewn across the fetid underbelly of the web itself. I hate them. That is the reason I will probably never be published on one of the megasites that republish blog posts and memes and all of that, without, I might add, compensating - and often not even giving credit to - the creator of the content.

This is also why, to be honest, I will never have more than a couple hundred followers and such a low volume of "hits" on this page.

Do I care? Not after this week, not after seeing a man I respect weep in frustration because something important he wrote was attacked. I've seen it a number of times. It's ugly. I can't tell you the details, because it would embroil me in the very fire of hatred I am so trying to avoid.

I came as close to closing this thing down as I have ever come this week. I mentioned it and then Jack - beautiful, irreverent, sacred, kind, prolific, tender, insane Jack - said this to me: "Please don't quit, part of how we hold down the fort is by being here and writing our stories. And we are all part of this community, if you quit because you feel like you have said all you have to say that is one thing, but not because of this."

Thanks, Jack.


I've mentioned in the past that I pray a lot. I guess this could certainly seem pious. I get that. It could also imply that I am a hopeless sinner. Yeah, I am. I could come across as holier-than-thou. I ain't. Do I pray so I can tell you that I pray? Maybe, a little.

Listen, I pray because the alternative sucks. You may think the alternative is not-praying, but, that's not so. The opposite of prayer to God - a god, the god, the gods, Her, Him, Them - the opposite of that is prayer to self. That don't work. Trust me. I am not my ultimate power; I am not my supreme being.

Henri Nouwen wrote: To pray, I think, does not mean to think about God in contrast to thinking about other things, or to spend time with God instead of spending time with other people. Rather, it means to think and live in the presence of God. All our actions must have their origin in prayer. Praying is not an isolated activity; it takes place in the midst of all the things and affairs that keep us active. In prayer a "self-centred monologue" becomes a "God-centred dialogue.

For a long while, a couple of years I'd guess, I carried a St. Joseph medallion loose in my pocket. I mention it again because every time I touch that medal, I remember what it is, I remember who St. Joseph is, I remember he and I are both fathers, I remember we both have sons and, in so doing, I say a prayer of thanks to him and a prayer of blessing on my sons, through the son he raised. In an instant, in real time. Now.

I wear that medallion around my neck now, its tarnished oval seems dull as it nestles against the shiny new silver cross I have on an endless chain around my ever vulnerable neck. I don’t touch it so much anymore, talisman-like, no... but the two - the silver cross and the pewter medal - ring together with a satisfying, beguiling, haunting note that holds for longer than expected. When I hear it I think of Zuzu, I think of angels, I think of my angel, your angel, I think of love, joy, kindness... hope, and, in so doing, I say a prayer of thanksgiving as pure and honest as any psalm or hymn. In an instant.

Just now. As in it just happened. I get up to go look out the window and it rings and then... and then, I stick my hand in my pocket and my finger gets tangled in a leather string which attaches to a wooden cross with a name on it, some one for whom I promised myself I would pray daily throughout Lent. And, each and every time I feel that warm rugged hand-hewn cross in my pocket or see it on my dresser or notice it when I look for my phone, I will.

The other day I was praying briefly in the morning, on my knees at the small home altar we have in the guest room - a simple candle, some holy water, a children's bible, and two hand-painted chalices, crafted by the sacred cherubs who bless our home. One of these angels walked in on me, which, embarrassingly, I don't like, and stood quietly, which is rare for Nick. I knew he was there - one senses cherubs - and I pulled my hands away from my face, which is how I pray to limit distraction, and smiled at him. He asked me what I was doing.

"Prayin'," I answered.

He took and long beat and looked into my soul, which was laid bare to him.

"Good," he said directly, with authority, with grace... prayerfully, in retrospect, and turned and walked quietly out of the room, which is rare for Nick.

In all fairness, I should tell you who I am praying for when I fumble across the wooden touchstone in my pocket. Yes, it is a specific person, a person I love deeply, so deeply I will pray always for them and it is you, and you... and you.

Always.

I promise.

From Marci's "...things you don't expect to hear from the backseat..."

A three-year-old Nick after getting ice cream:  "What flavor is God?"

Well, that's gonna add another year to divinity school...

Thanks for coming around and listening.  I feel better, back on track, like I feel after I pray.  Wait, was this a... naw, or, maybe?

" All our actions must have their origin in prayer."