. . . I Wanted to Pray

. . . I Wanted To Pray


I wanted to pray. Tiny crystal beads danced and softly clicked, catching sunlight, splattering the walls with shimmering flecks of light as I propped myself against the pillows on my bed and embraced my rosary, touching new thoughts with each bead. Curtains opened wide, I turned my face into the afternoon sun, feeling the warmth of God’s love, letting it melt the day's tensions and relax my soul.

My lips quivered lightly, murmuring inaudible sounds, reflections of mysteries past, yet ever near. Slowly, slowly I immersed myself in contemplation, and lost myself in peace.

My daughter cried. Timidly at first, her voice rose quickly from whimpers, to sobs, to lusty wails, pleading my concentration with new urgency.

My breath -- moments before hushed, and stilled, and barely flowing -- “hmmmmmed” impatiently from the tension of needs. Her crying persisted. Naptime postponed, I rose to go get her.

She smiled at me. Her two-teeth grin momentarily lightened my load as I eased her from her crib, cradling her in my arms, soothing her upset, whether real or imagined. Her eyes -- still brimming with tears -- met mine, sparkling her love and thanksgiving.

We walked, and we talked, and we played. Minute begat minute as I laughed at her fuzzy red head bobbing; her pudgy hands reaching, touching, exploring; her baby-bent legs, rolled with the contentment of mommy’s milk and arms, stretching, quavering, rocking back and forth a bit, straining to hoist her plump belly from the floor, then unexpectedly snapping support to an earth-laden face; her mouth, twisted with uncertainty and imitation, shrieking and cooing, tasting toys, and toes, and fingers; her overall impishness, so awkward in testing new beginning. “Molly…, my Molly,” I misted and quaked; she half-smiled at me in muted recognition.

Tiring quickly, I watched her lashes flutter at half-mast-hazel. Willingly, she leaned into my arms, uncurling fingers to let a favorite rattle droop, withdrawing to the warmth of sweet slumber, gently rooting a soft peaked lip-line for food and surrender.

With ease I lifted us both for departure. A ring of dishelmed playthings recalled our leaving. Returning to my rosary, fluidly, quietly I crept.

In the hallway I could hear the subdued sounds of “Moby-son” caught up in bath-play-battle, putting a small plastic boat through dangerous waters. The door was closed before me. I hesitated, then decided not to enter. After all, I wanted to pray…

My daughter winced as I eased myself back in place against the pillows, and a retiring sun spent it’s final harsh rays and glazed her profile. Unveiling my breast and cuddling her close, her squirming ceased and I went back to my meditation.

Prayer followed prayer. Again I was lost and at peace.

“Mom?”

“…Mom…?”

My eyes were closed. Stubbornly, I pretended not to hear.

“MOM!”

I looked, and couldn’t help but laugh. My son, dappled with drips, had blotted a path through the carpet towards me, blonde tufts of wet hair standing in all directions, pruney finger-tips reaching out to rouse me. With great dignity, yet that happy-go-lucky look that so closely resembles his father, his serious little eyes commanded my attention as his nakedness stood shivering before me.

“I’m all done,” he said.

“Good.” I smiled.

“I need help.”

“Honey, I laid out a towel in there for you, and your clothes are on the vanity.”

“Okay!” His face flashed a huge grin as he turned quickly from me and lit through the room in retreat.

I returned to my prayers, this time struggling for concentration…

He was singing. It was some song about numbers, but his four-year-old memory knew no order and very little music -- only volume. His voice teetered recklessly, first alto, then soprano; now baritone, usually monotone. I had to fight the urge to laugh within my flesh, choosing instead to wrestle for composure.

The singing continued, but I was loosing it. Inside I was nurturing Psalms of my own…

And then the grumbling started. “Awwwwww. Come on……. Ehhhhhh!” I waited. I knew what was coming.

“MOM…! I… cant…. get… this BUTTONED! His frustration just seethed!

“MOM!!!”

My own frustration rose. Why is this always so difficult, I thought. All I need is -- what? -- 20 minutes to myself? Is that too much to ask? Self-pity nearly curdled the moment. Instead I called out to him, “Come here, David.”

I took a deep breath, and then I took another… Disjointedly he plowed through the room towards me, pinching and pulling at the buttons on his uneven shirt.

“Awwwww, Mom…” Tragedy starred at me from behind chestnut brown eyes. “I can’t do it… I just can’t do it!”

And as I, one-handedly, reached out to help my son, a new revelation suddenly blossomed within me….

Mary, Mother of God… Mary, Mother of Christ… Jesus, a man like us in every way but sin… Mary, a mother…

My eyes fell. My daughters mouth tugged at my breast…, slept…, tugged…, needed me…, filled me with joy.

And my son, gleefully playing in bathwater, singing silly songs…, then calling on me for help in tragedies as big as buttons.

A man like us in every way but sin…

Suddenly, I knew this new intimacy. These were people, real people; a mother, a son, once an infant. Not just memories 2000 years old from some remote, recorded Galilee, but people today, still present, eternal. I knew my feelings as theirs, and theirs as mine, and I suddenly felt awed, and humbled, and humanly close.

And in my mind’s eye, I even glimpsed Mary laughing, taking great joy in the comedy of our moment. Girlishly, her head was tossed back, her dark curls casually cascading, and her giggling was innocent and young. And in that moment, I felt such strength through honest empathy, and new honor in the likeness of flesh.

And as it happened 2000 years ago, so it became more real for me that day: Christ was born a man into a manger of hay -- unbefitting a king -- and devised a new kingdom of love and understanding, extending himself completely to everyone in each trial or glory, desiring no earthen pedestal, but a home in the very heart of life, and a place nitched gently in the very core of man.

Quickly as the moment had come, then, it's vestige drained away, leaving me newly radiant from behind moist eyes, a smirky smile. My son, bewildered by his mother’s sudden silent sadness, or joy, or sentiment, or …whatever, casually apologized for his intrusion, stabbed at affection with his characteristic nervous grin, glanced for just a second with furtive concern, then, assessing me to be in no real danger, quickly fled to the privacy of his room, trading somberness for the detachment of boisterous play.

And so I continued my prayers…, this time with the treasure of new depth and understanding, and the sincerity of sharing more fully myself.