Faith
The power of prayer, whoosh, that’s a tricky one.
Religion, in general, is an interesting topic. Especially in these red-state, blues-state, polarized times.
I’m kinda under the impression that talking about religion is on the same level as talking about hemorrhoids – best to be left alone.
It is a matter of personal preference. And, quite frankly, nobody’s business but your own.
Am I religious? I’m spiritual. I believe in something, even though I can’t often put it into words. I’m Catholic – I was raised that way, and I remain, because it is familiar – and I find comfort in the traditions and rituals. I went back to the church after my mother died – it was a big, big part of her life – and found renewed spirituality while travelling to Catholic Central – Rome.
I find, however, that my spiritualism tends to run toward an appreciation of the natural world, and how everything seems to be inter-connected. I used to say that God was OK with me not kneeling in a pew in some church, since I was kneeling in the cathedral that is the wilderness, overlooking a high-mountain lake as an osprey plucks a trout from the still water.
My dad’s accident has put a lot of things into sharp focus, and that includes religion.
He should not be here, plain and simple. A 3,400-pound car had him pinned to the asphalt for something like five minutes. I’ve seen the pictures, he has a tire track that runs across the back of his favorite blue shirt. The doctors, nurses, emergency staff all told him he should be dead.
He has a broken ankle, bruises, burns and a lot of road rash.
There is no explanation for this, except his Faith (and I put that is cap letters, because he has deep, unshakable Faith).
“It was like I was being drawn into a picture,” he said of the accident. “There were yellow flowers and birds. Then your mother appeared and told God, ‘You’re not talking another parent away from my children.’ And then the picture went away.”
He said he thinks he knows where the yellow came in, the yellow stripes of the firefighters who struggled to figure out how to get the car off of him.
But I believe his other explanation. The Faith-based one. I really do. While backpacking, I was awoken at 3 a.m. by someone who shouted my name, just once.
“It’s OK,” came and went in a whisper.
I slept soundly in the knowledge until 8:30 a.m.
Who was it? My mom? I hope so. My siblings have had moments of clarity with her, and I was beginning to think she was angry with me. Turns out, I was closed up to receiving the signal. I was angry and pissed-off. And I have moved past that, into a really good place (it’s funny how a few $150 sessions with a psychologist will help).
Still, it’s hard for me to have Faith – again capital F – because I am an “intellectual.” I think, therefore I have trouble gripping concepts I cannot explain with reason.
It doesn’t mean I don’t want to try to grasp what so many people find as a warm blanket on a cold evening. The Hand of God, I guess.
I am open to explore. My mind is open. My soul is open.
On Friday, I was at the Sundial Bridge, waiting for parents to pick up their kids after my daughter’s birthday party. A couple of guys strolled up and introduced themselves.
“We’re on a scavenger hunt,” the older gentleman said. “And funny, when we started, it was my mission to find a guy in a cowboy hat.
“And we’re here to pray for folks. Is there anything you’d like us to pray for?”
“My dad,” I said. “He was run over by a car last week.”
“Well, let’s pray for you, and we’ll send these prayers out to him.”
They put their hands on my shoulders and prayed for dad’s bones to knit, his bruises to go away.
It lasted for a couple of minutes. And it wasn’t hokey. It was OK.
I am open, Lord, yes, I am open.
Religion, in general, is an interesting topic. Especially in these red-state, blues-state, polarized times.
I’m kinda under the impression that talking about religion is on the same level as talking about hemorrhoids – best to be left alone.
It is a matter of personal preference. And, quite frankly, nobody’s business but your own.
Am I religious? I’m spiritual. I believe in something, even though I can’t often put it into words. I’m Catholic – I was raised that way, and I remain, because it is familiar – and I find comfort in the traditions and rituals. I went back to the church after my mother died – it was a big, big part of her life – and found renewed spirituality while travelling to Catholic Central – Rome.
I find, however, that my spiritualism tends to run toward an appreciation of the natural world, and how everything seems to be inter-connected. I used to say that God was OK with me not kneeling in a pew in some church, since I was kneeling in the cathedral that is the wilderness, overlooking a high-mountain lake as an osprey plucks a trout from the still water.
My dad’s accident has put a lot of things into sharp focus, and that includes religion.
He should not be here, plain and simple. A 3,400-pound car had him pinned to the asphalt for something like five minutes. I’ve seen the pictures, he has a tire track that runs across the back of his favorite blue shirt. The doctors, nurses, emergency staff all told him he should be dead.
He has a broken ankle, bruises, burns and a lot of road rash.
There is no explanation for this, except his Faith (and I put that is cap letters, because he has deep, unshakable Faith).
“It was like I was being drawn into a picture,” he said of the accident. “There were yellow flowers and birds. Then your mother appeared and told God, ‘You’re not talking another parent away from my children.’ And then the picture went away.”
He said he thinks he knows where the yellow came in, the yellow stripes of the firefighters who struggled to figure out how to get the car off of him.
But I believe his other explanation. The Faith-based one. I really do. While backpacking, I was awoken at 3 a.m. by someone who shouted my name, just once.
“It’s OK,” came and went in a whisper.
I slept soundly in the knowledge until 8:30 a.m.
Who was it? My mom? I hope so. My siblings have had moments of clarity with her, and I was beginning to think she was angry with me. Turns out, I was closed up to receiving the signal. I was angry and pissed-off. And I have moved past that, into a really good place (it’s funny how a few $150 sessions with a psychologist will help).
Still, it’s hard for me to have Faith – again capital F – because I am an “intellectual.” I think, therefore I have trouble gripping concepts I cannot explain with reason.
It doesn’t mean I don’t want to try to grasp what so many people find as a warm blanket on a cold evening. The Hand of God, I guess.
I am open to explore. My mind is open. My soul is open.
On Friday, I was at the Sundial Bridge, waiting for parents to pick up their kids after my daughter’s birthday party. A couple of guys strolled up and introduced themselves.
“We’re on a scavenger hunt,” the older gentleman said. “And funny, when we started, it was my mission to find a guy in a cowboy hat.
“And we’re here to pray for folks. Is there anything you’d like us to pray for?”
“My dad,” I said. “He was run over by a car last week.”
“Well, let’s pray for you, and we’ll send these prayers out to him.”
They put their hands on my shoulders and prayed for dad’s bones to knit, his bruises to go away.
It lasted for a couple of minutes. And it wasn’t hokey. It was OK.
I am open, Lord, yes, I am open.
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