the posture of prayer

 

St. Cecilia Catholic Church, Houston

"The Prayer," Will Rogers World Airport, Oklahoma City

Years ago, during what in retrospect was the worse years of our marriage – a time when Michael and I didn’t like each other very much, we managed to do ONE thing right.

I don’t know which one of us suggested it, or where the idea came from, but we began the practice of getting on our knees, holding hands, and reciting the Memorare together.

Remember, O most gracious Virgin Mary, that never was it known that anyone who fled to your protection, implored your help, or sought your intercession, was left unaided.

 

Inspirited by this confidence, I fly to you, O Virgin of virgins, my mother. To you I come, before you I stand, sinful and sorrowful. O Mother of the Word Incarnate, despise not my petitions, but in your mercy, hear and answer me.

The words of the prayer truly expressed our struggle as a couple to hang on to hope for a future together, while offering up our reluctant surrender. Remember. Never. Unaided. Implored. Confidence. I fly to you. Hear and answer me.

And it put our dire needs in the hands of She who could bring our petty petitions to Jesus, and even use her motherly influence on our behalf!

No matter what had transpired that week, that day, or even that evening, every night we ended the day by getting on our knees next to our bed. Perhaps we were subconsciously recalling that child-part of our Spirit who once-upon-a-time learned to pray that way?

Trust me. This wasn’t easy. But one of the lessons I learned from that experience is that posture is important, especially in prayer.

Getting on my knees. Bowing my head. Holding hands. Opening up my hands.  Each of these became an intrinsic part of my prayer life, and of our praying.

A few years ago, while on retreat at Sacred Heart of Jesus Retreat Center in Los Angeles, I learned one more prayer posture that has become fundamental for me, a daily practice.

Every night, the Carmelite nuns and postulants end their prayers by standing before the Blessed Sacrament, opening their arms wide open, and reciting three times the words,

“O Most Sacred Heart of Jesus, I put my trust in Thee.”

be here now

The first 24 hours at the beach always seems to have the same pattern for me.  As is true with any form of retreat, the beginning inevitably involves a lot of letting go before I can truly, fully, “be here.”

For me, that normally means that in order to be fully present to this place, to this moment, I must stop counting. Counting time, calories (or points), hours of sleep, amount of writing I want to accomplish, days left at the beach, and especially, I must stop counting hours.

Last night, for example, I went to sleep before Michael (something that NEVER happens at home), and I got up after Michael (only unusual because of the previous fact!)—And I gave myself permission to not feel guilty at all. My body needed extra sleep, and I gave it just that.

When my beach retreat is shared with Michael, it takes a little while for us to find a rhythm together. It requires a blend of extra awareness about the Other and his needs, and extra space to find a common pace that allows us to be together. We eat when we are hungry. We sleep when we’re tired. We give each other time to write. Sometimes we walk together, sometimes alone. 

As is true of any experience, it all becomes a metaphor for my life—for our life together. 

Clearly, with many more pulls and tugs back home that take each of us in a myriad of professional and personal directions, we have to work harder at finding the rhythm.

But the truths remain the same:

#1, I can’t give what I don’t have. Before I can be truly present to Michael (or to anything or anyone in my life, for that matter) I have to be present to my needs and myself. I have to give myself permission to take the time, space and attention that I need—even when it seems “too much”!

And #2, if I am to walk together the pilgrimage of daily life with my husband of (almost) 32 years in a life-giving way, my attention to him must be deliberate, a blend of attentiveness and time. There is no substitute for time.

This morning's walk included this line as a mantra, from Sunday's liturgy at St. Thomas More in Austin. Do you know this song by Marty Haugen?

"For you oh Lord, my soul in stillness waits. Truly, my hope is in you."