Mary Oliver
I can’t quite remember when I first learned to pray. Most probably, it was with my grandmother who would take me into town where we would pay a visit to St. Francis’ before or after a stroll through Myers. Here we would make a beeline for the Ladye Chapel. I was allowed to light three candles for threepence. As each little flame flickered into life, I said a quick prayer as I worried about the dribbling wax burning my fingers.
These stubbly little candles placed carefully on the rather brutalist candelabra were where my tiny thoughts first moved beyond myself. Praying was listing those I loved, asking for forgiveness for the multiple venial sins committed as the oldest of seven siblings. and thanking God for practically everything else. I believed my prayers were heard.
The Ladye Chapel was such a beautiful place to pray. It still is. My prayers today tend along the usual cover notes for family and friends, some global issues, some local ones and then the prayers I have promised to say for someone who is not well or for a special cause. They are of the common or garden variety. I was pleased to recently discover a lovely quote from that rich provider of wisdom ANON, whom I often think is a woman, When you can’t put your prayers into words, God hears your heart.
At home, we said grace before our meals and bedtime prayers. Our first books were about angels and fairies and sometimes these two got a bit mixed up. We solemnly recited,
Now, I lay me down to sleep,
I pray the Lord my soul to keep,
If I should die before I wake,
I pray the Lord my soul to take.
Looking back on my prayer-full past I wonder about this one. Some children may well have been scared to go to sleep. At my grandmother’s, I slept under a picture of the Sacred Heart, dear Jesus looking at me tenderly and me not quite looking back. Before bed, my grandmother and I had kneeled on the floral carpet in the loungeroom to say five decades of the rosary. Generally, though prayers were seen as warm and hopeful, talking simply to the God we were getting to know.
At school, we recited the rosary and the 12.00 Angelus bell split the day in two. Prayers were like flowers, blooming everywhere; on holy pictures, in Mass books, in the stories of the saints, all to be read silently or said aloud. Prayers said together added another dimension. For me, this created a chorus of belief as certain words were murmured and mumbled amongst the faithful. It betokened belonging. Our prayers were like passwords, a certain way of celebrating the Christian story in our rich Catholic tradition.
As we continue our journey with Jesus through Lent, we continue to pray. The theologian, Henri Nouwen, writes about the Jesus who is busy with his ministry as he heads towards Jerusalem. He is healing and preaching, travelling, responding to the disciples who don’t quite get what he is about.
In the morning, while it was still very dark, he got up and went out to a deserted place, and there he prayed (Mark 1: 35). Nouwen notes that in the midst of much action, there is a moment of restful breathing in the gospel account. Stillness, away from all the movement, a withdrawal, contemplation. Here Jesus seeks solitude, words with his Father, in the deep hours before dawn. He seeks the stillness, away from the distraction of the very human needs of those who follow him. He goes to the desert for silence, to commune, renewing his spiritual strength for the sacrifice he knows is his destiny.
In our digitally demanding world, it is hard to find any sort of silence. We are in a constant state of anticipation or FOMO, alert to the ping of a notification. What we need to do – and perhaps this can be one of the Lenten actions of giving up – is to deliberately find some silence so we can pray. We need to withdraw, even for a short time, from the fray. Putting our phones on silent could be a start as we invite our own companionable silence into our hearts.
For some, this silence or withdrawal to pray might be in the early hours of the morning, that quiet time when the day ahead is softly beckoning before the household wakes and the traffic surges and we gird our loins for whatever the day may hold. I love hearing the carillon of birdsong at dawn and although I do not leap out of bed as I used to, my heart is lifted into prayer. Others may prefer the evening, when day is done, and there is time to reflect as the household goes to bed. Sometimes, I sit in my grandmother’s chair and exhale deeply before attempting to pray. Dogs bark in the distance and I can hear the late trains at Union Station, but I make an effort to put the day away with gratitude.
But prayer does not have to be timetabled. It may be more spontaneous. That ten minutes in a park, a walk around the block, no podcast. It might be a visit to the chapel or popping into a church or sitting still on a balcony watching the clouds and gathering your thoughts to give to God.
As the beautiful poem by Mary Oliver at the beginning of this piece suggests, prayers do not have to be elaborate or said in the splendour of a great cathedral. We just need to pay attention, find some stillness or solitude and let the silence speak to us. Perhaps we can be with Jesus as he withdraws from the busyness of his own ministry to find solace and strength for the journey ahead.
In the silence, we might hear another voice, the voice that leads us where we need to go.
For me, it’s into the place where my prayers are still heard.
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Betty Rudin says:
Thanks Ann Lots of memories triggered here ……..Prayer, I was recently sent a piece written by Pope Francis -A definition of Hospital
It starts “The walls of hospitals have heard more honest prayers than churches..”