Prayer Warrior

It started out being just a leisurely Saturday afternoon get-together for the “trinity” to catch up. That was at 1 p.m. When T walked through the door at 10:30 p.m. that night, I knew things had taken a turn. As T explained to me, the story unfolded into much more than we had feared. We knew trouble had been stalking some of our precious, younger extended family members—but, it turns out it had been living with them for some time. I’d been praying for them for so long—but had it helped? There again were the questions that had faced us before: What do we do? What can we do? What is our responsibility? Can we force a hand? It was no secret to our close family and friends that we’d been here before—with another. In that case, we’d made mistakes by not acting sooner. Mistakes we are still trying to make right.

This time, T didn’t even wait for the end of the trio’s conversation to lead the charge. They (the trinity we once called “the bro hem brothers”) swooped in, removed the bambinis to a safe place to talk. There were tears. There was a plea for help. There was even an audible cry for more God in their lives. (Ahhh…you WERE listening! Thank you!) Then there was consolation and reassurance. T let them know they are well loved. He told them the situation is not their fault. He reminded them that we aren’t going away … that we’re (all) going to help do everything in our power to make things better for them. He even mentioned God.

As he told me all of this late Saturday night, I just kept thinking of all those years we debated about prophets, gods, religions and spirituality. I kept thinking about how many years went by that he was so lost spiritually and unhappy. I remembered the Christmas long ago when his doubt and desperation hit an all time low. I’d just kept praying for him to find peace. Now he was leading the charge, and I don’t even think he realized it. I couldn’t help but smile as he was talking. “Why are you smiling?” he asked. “I was just noticing what shirt you happened to be wearing today.” He looked down. Then he smiled, too. (See photo at right.) The queen's warrior.

Someone sent me an email with a new acronym this week. I’m adopting it as my personal mission statement: P.U.S.H. –“Pray Until Something Happens.” It works. I swear.

But Cheerios Aren't Very Colorful ...

Father’s Day. A young family sneaks into church just after mass has started and sits in the pew in front of us. They are perfectly groomed and in their Sunday best … a young mother, handsome father, baby boy (about 3 months); “big” brother (about 2 ½ years old) and “Mary Beth” (about 6 years old). Her name has been elegantly painted on her backpack. She is wearing a beautiful sundress, dainty shoes, a headband in her fair hair and a heart locket. Brother’s hair is styled, bangs to one side. He's wearing a little Ralph Lauren–style vest with his khakis. I recognize this family. The pretty young Mother is a friend of my sister’s; the little girl adored by my niece—(the divine Miss M).

Despite my effort to focus, I’m distracted from the sermon—watching them. Shortly after they arrive, the baby starts to fuss quietly. Big brother comes to the rescue immediately. He plays with him—smiling. Tickling. Soon the baby fusses again. With silent hand gestures, Mom signals Dad to pick up baby while she—in two quick motions (totaling less than one minute)—extracts a bottle and powdered mix in a plastic container and combines them to make a fresh bottle.

While she feeds the baby, Big brother opens his backpack. He extracts a craft kit that clearly Mom has prepared in advance to entertain the children for this hour. He finds a fat, sparkly, new blue shoelace. Then he takes out a tiny plastic container filled with colorful fruit loop cereal. With great contentment, he begins stringing the cereal, like beads, on the shoelace.

The mass continues. The family, children included, have been taking part. And they have been so very quiet and well behaved. Mary Beth pulls out her craft project. Her shoelace is sparkly pink. Her plastic container is filled with plain cheerios. We are at the point of the mass where a miracle occurs—plain bread and wine become the body and blood of our Lord. We are on our knees. Heads are bowed. For some reason, Mary Beth is frustrated. She spies her brother’s multi-colored fruit loops. She expresses a whispered complaint to her mother—who tries to quiet her for the moment. Mary Beth voices her point again—a little louder. “But cheerios aren’t very colorful!” she cries aloud. In one quick, silent movement, Mom opens both plastic containers—creates a new mixture of plain cheerios and colorful fruit loops and everyone is content again (with creativity having been nurtured in the process). I’ve now witnessed two miracles within the hour.

I think about how much preparation went into her morning getting this entire family church-ready. I think about her preparing the craft kits, the bottle ingredients, packing the backpacks, combing everyone’s hair, making sure their clothes were clean and pressed and caring enough to pay attention to the little details like hair bands and heart lockets. All for one hour … to honor God. Could there be a better prayer? I don’t think so.

The congregation stands. We share the sign of peace and wish the fathers in attendance a “Happy Father’s Day." Silently, I’m honoring this Mom today—and Moms everywhere.

Spiritual Spa Weekend

I visited one of my favorite spots in the world this weekend. The campus of the University of Notre Dame. More specifically, the grotto there. It is modeled on the one in Lourdes, France. Built in 1896, it is a place of quiet grace--sometimes referred to as "the cave of candles." Approaching it, you feel the warmth. There is an unspoken sense of healing, peace and forgiveness here. Visitors light candles "offering up" their prayers to our lady--as intercessor to her son.

Each time I visit, I am so moved by the flowers, prayer cards, photos, tears. There are no egos here. It is a haven of humility. There are seldom any words being exchanged by visitors. I've been here in the rain--as a grandfatherly man sat on a bench praying the rosary, with two labs sitting faithfully by his side as it poured on them all. His young grandson, dressed in pajamas ran in and about the grotto, lighting candles. His grandfather didn't seem to notice--his tears mixed with the rain. His pain was palpable to passers by. I pray for him this time when I visit--and often when I think back on that scene.

I've been here in spring (this time) with flowers in full bloom, church goers and visitors weaving about each other in silence. Pausing, Praying. I've been here in cold--with my sisters hugging, because it seems the natural thing to do here. I've been here with my son.

Each time I've visited, I've been with my Mom. And I always think about how blessed I am to be here with "both my Moms." There is never enough time here. I just want to sit and adore. I just want everyone to experience this peace. Because then things would be so very, very different.