A Mother's Prayer

It was like a ritual. Every morning, before six, my mother would awake and begin to pray. The steady, earnest cadence of her voice would rouse me from tousled sleep because my internal clock had already adjusted to alarm and wake me as soon as the first words of entreaty issued from her mouth.

My mother prayed in our local Creole or patois. A simple, unsophisticated woman from Canaries, she never bothered to learn even the rudiments of English. By her own account, she found school to be too structured and boring, and although she attended on a fairly regular basis her mind was always elsewhere.

Lying awake on a bed of old clothing on the living room floor, I would listen in awestruck silence to my mother; to the hypnotic rise and fall of her voice that sounded like an incantation. To the unmistakable sound of anguish and pain that traveled on leaden wings of misery to a silent GOD in his eternal Kingdom!
Sometimes, I would close my eyes and allow the waves of devotion to wash against me while I contemplated a miracle–the miracle of a small boy growing up and transforming his mother’s life. In those days, I believed in fairy tales and magical developments and happy endings no matter what the odds.

And my mother prayed for the good of her family, her friends and her enemies. I balked at the “enemies” bit. My mother had always been something of a rebel; a maverick who did not believe in the obsequious knee-bending and scraping that lesser mortals reserved for those who possessed the outward trappings of power or authority or prestige. She did not seem to “know her place” and her lack of respect for this societal curse earned her the enmity of her “betters” who would not waste a thought on her misfortunes.

“Prayer shatters rock and moves mountains,” she always said, and I could not understand how hers never could shatter the hard, unyielding rock of our poverty. My mother prayed with such earnestness and conviction that, sometimes, I would become misty-eyed with emotional overload. In some instances, the quiet intensity of her heaven-bound dialogue was like a palpable force that produced an unfathomable echo in my heart.
She never groped for nor stumbled over words. Her agony would flow from her in eloquent Creole and I tried to translate as best as my limited knowledge of the language allowed. Her words of worship and entreaty were not rushed, but measured and punctuated with the nuances of her intensity. And I marveled because I could not understand how so much pain could sound so musical!

“ Bohn mweh la force, suhtay ek koowai…” My mother prayed for strength, good health and courage. A woman in her late forties who had nothing to show for all those years of struggle except a small, old wooden house, breasts flattened by an eternity of suckling and a tired womb that had produced thirteen children, was waxing visceral and praying for ephemeral intangibles? She never asked for a bigger house or the means to elevate herself to a higher social standing–just strength, good health and courage to continue struggling.

I did not know it then, but part of my life’s code was being written right there. In a living room that reeked of poverty and hardship, and with the early morning sunlight already coming through the cracks in our house, a subliminal legacy was being passed from mother to son! Against the backdrop of a mother’s anguished prostration and the silent, awesome majesty of an invisible GOD, my humanity was being reinforced and refined through the power of a prayer.

There were times when she prayed that I became filled with something that I could not exactly define. But, whatever it was felt good, clean and pure. There were also times when I felt insignificant in the face of what sounded like a soliloquy. A soliloquy delivered with some of the coal dust of the previous day's honest endeavors still on her skin. Coal dust that stuck to the inner lining of her nostrils and clogged her pores. Coal dust that clung to my father when the two embraced in the dead quiet and breathless passion of the night!

“ Chaybay mweh Papa assoo shimeh wed sa la…” Her human frailty was vivid in the agony of her plea. She needed divine help to stay the course, to continue and finish her life’s journey. The enormous weight of life was pressing down upon her flesh and threatening to break her. And the vulnerability of her existence loomed large in the daily, backbreaking grind of mindless, monotonous labor where the mundane merged with the meaningless to produce a sense of crushing futility.

What specific elements constitute a human being? What lies inside the realm of flesh, bone, tissue and psyche that takes a human being to the limit of mortal endurance and beyond? What makes a woman face one grueling day after another in the face of brutally overwhelming conditions? What is it about the maternal instinct that submerges self and brings self-sacrifice to the fore?
My mother’s prayer never centered on questions or rationalizations. She accepted her lot in life with the simple faith of a child. Hers was a faith that was as unshakable as the poverty that stalked and dogged us and reduced us to the level of insignificant nuisances in the eyes of some. In the face of social discrimination, condemnation, accusations, domestic abuse and the fulfillment of her obligations, her faith never wavered.

“ Bohn mweh la gwass Papa…” She was asking for the ultimate gift of GOD. She was praying for the grace to serenely accept her station in life and the infinite challenges posed by that rugged life. I did not understand that then, and I puzzled over it. To a small boy’s mind, this was not something tangible or digestible; it was not even something that I could take in context and give an English connotation to. But in that simple, heart-rending plea lay the secret of my mother’s strength. For in the confines of a domicile where hardship lived and prospered, the power of an omniscient GOD was unleashed!

Many years later, I finally understood. I finally understood the remarkable resilience and unflinching perseverance of a woman besieged. In the glaring inequity of life and the anguished plea of an embattled soul something wondrous had moved. A prayer that was rooted in a simple faith had evoked the mercy and compassion of GOD resulting in an unseen and uncelebrated miracle! So each new day, each new circumstance, each new challenge was met with an unearthly resolve that transcended mere courage or maternal instinct. And even when things were at their most dismal, the grace of GOD shone through…

In the ensuing silence that signaled the end of my mother’s prayer, I would scramble to my knees and say my own short, inadequate prayer. Then I would lie down again on my sparse bedding and close my eyes against the torrid emotions raging within me.