(It’s past midnight, and I’m not proofreading this. Sorry.)
I have been at times lately, greatly concerned about the spiritual health of my firstborn. It seemed like, early on, he was on the right track. I don’t remember what exactly his first word was (other than mama), but I do remember that his first three words were “socks,” “hot,” and “amen.” By age two, he even had his own unique version of the sign of the cross; he would tap his throat following a prayer, just a minor deviation from the standard forehead, belly button, left shoulder, right shoulder protocol. It was absolutely thrilling to a mother who had prayed so fervently that God would spare her the anguish of losing her firstborn,
But then, as he approached his third birthday prayer life significantly deteriorated.
He would listen while I prayed aloud at his bedtime, until he became old enough to protest. “Mommy, no prayin’!” he would insist. I realized that perhaps my praying had been a little overwhelming to a toddler/preschooler who already seemed to have the weight of the world on his shoulders.
Perhaps I should have stuck with an Our Father or Guardian Angel Prayer, but do you think I did? Nope. In the interest of formation of his young conscience, I included a lengthy discussion of sinfulness, repentance, and forgiveness in the nightly prayer. Then I moved on to thankfulness for our health, followed by a plea for healing of Grandma Diane and for continued healing of John. Finally, I closed with a request to keep “mommy, daddy, John & Baby Patrick safe”. I’m sure I from time to time as the need arose and time permitted, I threw in a request for more or less rain, world peace, or the election of a fiscally libertarian and socially conservative president.
It’s easy to see in hindsight why I might have turned him off of the whole prayer concept. But recently, he seems to be putting the pieces together, a little at a time. When he remembers it, he likes to take his “God book” to Mass with him. (It’s a book of children’s prayers with a convenient carrying handle for the preschooler on the go.)
And, until recently, he adamantly refused to fold his hands, bow his hands and even pretend to pray before meals. Now, I’d like to say this recent development (him finally participating in mealtime prayer) can be credited to Matt & I taking a stand and refusing to pray (and thus refusing to let the meal begin) until everyone solemnly folded his hands and prayed together. This seems unlikely, though, as meals for John are simply a mysterious ritual for which he has no real use.
His daily diet goes something like this:
morning hot chocolate, apple juice with miralax, apple juice, two frozen peas and half a can of cranberry sauce for lunch, followed by naptime water, afternoon hot chocolate, iced tea for supper with one chicken nugget and 3 tablespoons of BBQ sauce, then bedtime water.
No, I don’t think his new compliance on the prayer issue has anything to do with the threat of not getting to eat his fish sticks. Rather, I think it has more to do with the fact that his younger brother (ever eager to please, or maybe just scared straight) caught on to the prayer routine and gleefully takes a moment away from blowing on his food (ever mindful of safety, that Patrick is) to clasp his sticky hands together and wave them around so everyone can see he’s big enough to pray just like everyone else.
At any rate, John has finally been joining us in prayer now at mealtime for the last couple weeks. His prayer goes like this “Blessusso, blessusso,” then mumbling gibberish for the rest of the prayer. He finishes up with the sign of the cross, which really reminds me of a flight attendant instructing passengers in the proper operation of the emergency oxygen masks, and usually goes something like “Father, Holy Son, Spirit, God on High...A-MEN!”
So, now comes the part I really wanted to share with you. My number one purpose in writing this blog is to maintain a record for myself of at least some of the amusing things my boys say or do, and this morning, John did something that is, at least to me, worth recording.
I heard him hollering from the parlor (that’s right, we have a parlor, not a livingroom, and it has a davenport, not a couch…you can laugh here…it’s a joke) something I didn’t immediately understand. I came in from the kitchen to figure out what he was saying, which was “I’m spending time with the Lord.”
“Ok. Good,” I said, or something like that, and went in to see what this meant.
He had procured not one, but two step stools, and was apparently holding a prayer service of some sort. He had used one stool to climb up into the window seat. (It is in fact a high window seat, but he does not require the stool to climb up onto it; however, I bought the stool at a yard sale last weekend so it’s a new favorite toy, and has a role in whatever game is going on). The second stool, he had actually placed on the window seat and was, of course, standing on it. Thus, he had constructed a dais and explained seriously and patiently, “Mom, I’m praying. We have to be quiet in church.” “Ok,” I said.
I tried to go on about folding clothes while he mumbled gibberish, punctuated occasionally by a very plainly articulated “Lord, hear our prayer”.
He kept getting mad at me because I was supposed to “be quiet in church.” But I wasn’t saying anything, so I couldn’t figure out what the problem was. Finally, he got me to understand that I was supposed to be praying. So, I started with “Our Father”. This seemed to satisfy him, except for I was supposed to intone “Lord, hear our prayer” at the end. So, I Our Fathered some more, and I Hailed Mary, and I Confessed to Almighty God and to You My Brothers and Sisters. All were acceptable, as long as I punctuated them with “Lord, hear our prayer” every now and then.
When it was made clear to me by the lector that I was not yet finished, I continued praying an unscripted prayer, dutifully inserting “Lord, hear our prayer” here and there. I figured it couldn’t hurt me anyway.
All the time I was praying, John was praying lilting mumbling gibberish, interrupted every so often by “Lord, hear our prayer,” (again, the slow articulation was in stark contrast to the rest of the prayer.)
Finally, I looked up from my praying after a few minutes, and John said, “Church is over. You can go now.”
So, I did. I went back to my laundry. With a smile.
I think this immensely gratifying, happy mom moment prompted me to share John’s spiritual struggles tonight because I can’t share my own. I have instead taken a moment to reflect on just how normal my little boy is. I think about cancer every day, many times a day, but he doesn’t, and for that, I thank the Lord.
For the fact that he doesn’t know the debt of gratitude I owe for his healing, I thank the Lord.
And that thoughts of cancer may never consume his consciousness, I pray to the Lord.
Lord, hear my prayer.
Good night, and Good Friday.
