As I mentioned recently, we’ve put our two older boys in Cub Scouts, which is a new adventure for our family. We don’t really have the skills that one would wish for in Scout parents, so we kind of have to wing it and hope for the best.
The first project was the Pinewood Derby. The boys get a little kit to build a car out of a wooden block, and then they race them.
Well, you have to cut that block into a shape (I mean, you don’t have to, but if you don’t, your child’s car will lose the race and everyone will feel sorry for him, so you kind of do have to). I don’t own any power tools, or very many other tools either. We ran out and bought a saw, sketched a few lines, shrugged off my lack of skill, and went at it.
It wasn’t ten minutes before I was bleeding. I learned how to use a saw, years ago, but it’s been awhile, and I
maybe forgot a few safety rules. I lost control of the saw, and it bit into my knuckle. It hurt like the dickens, and it bled profusely, and I was scared I had seriously hurt myself. So, I did what any mature, responsible adult would do: I mopped up the blood, put on a bandage, and promised myself I’d look at it later. I went right back to sawing…and hurt myself again. I’m telling you, I am a born Scout mom.
I went through the whole day, uneasily noting that the blood was soaking the bandage, and postponing the inevitable unwrapping. I didn’t want to take the bandage off. It was bound to hurt, and I didn’t want to see the wound, didn’t want to face how bad it might be.
Is your prayer life ever like that?
Sometimes in the hard seasons of life, we try to cope with the pain by forgetting it, by burying it under all the to-dos on our list. That tactic gets us through our days, but it does nothing to bring healing and health to a soul that is wounded by sorrow or sin.
Spending time in prayer, though, rips off the band-aid. The wound is exposed, the blood (and the tears) can flow, and we might have to feel the pain that we’ve been ignoring, the fear that we’ve been burying. We naturally try to avoid that pain – but like avoiding the doctor for fear of stitches, that natural impulse leads us away from true comfort and true healing.
I go up to our parish chapel for prayer when I can. It’s more private than home, usually, and there’s something about walking through the door that says, “I choose to be here; there are a lot of things I have to do, and a lot of things on my mind, but this is the door I will walk through today.”
Once I’m there, though, it can be hard to begin. When your heart is aching, it’s hard to know what to say, and hard to overcome the desire to avoid opening that wound up. As a convert to the Catholic Church, I have come to deeply appreciate the rich tradition of recitation of rote prayers. I used to think they were empty, just mindless words, but they aren’t. They are the things our soul needs to say when we don’t know how.
So start with a Rosary. Start with the Our Father. Start with the Memorare, or the Magnificat. Just start. And maybe that day, your heart and mind won’t cooperate, and you just won’t feel a thing. That’s okay, because God was there. He heard you anyway, and He can still answer those prayers. Or maybe that day, the band-aid will come off, and your Savior will comfort your wounds and give you strength to walk out into the rain and carry on.
If you’re wondering, I have to admit that I never did look at my finger that day. Around supper time, I accepted that I was just too chicken to look for myself. I asked my teenage daughter, who has had some veterinary training, to take a look for me and see what she thought. I had a nasty cut, but it didn’t end up needing medical attention.
It might have made a better wrap-up if I’d looked at it myself and gone and got stitches. But I guess sometimes we’re not that strong. It’s a good thing prayer isn’t a magic fix that we take upon ourselves to accomplish. It’s just asking for some help from someone who knows what He’s doing.