praying for reality

Last night a van my brother was driving, in which I was a passenger, crashed into a crowd of picnickers. Several of them were killed instantly, including one very kindly-looking octagenarian in a purple, floral-print dress.

My brother is in Alberta right now, xraying pipelines, whereas I'm bumming around British Columbia, pretending to be an actor. It was a dream. I know, I know - you figure I maliciously tricked you there, jumping in like that. But I wanted to start you off with the same sort of a shock that yanked me tearily out of sleep.

I got up, left the bedroom, and began to pace around between our shabbily covered couch and futon. Then I started praying.

I don't know how you feel about praying, but I have never been too keen on it. Oh sure, growing up the child of missionaries in South America you know all about prayer. I did it morning, noon, night and three times on Sunday. Yet somehow it never meant much to me - you know - deep inside. I guess I generally hear myself and others praying and those words sound, to me, something like: "you know what, God, stop screwing around and give me what I want". I know I've heard (and given) arguments to the contrary, but if I were to tell you the truth (and I gotta admit, I might) I would have to say that the words have often felt just about empty.

Last night, though - in the breif moments before rationality reminded me that my brother was not, as I'd dreampt, in a careening van - I realized, deeply, my utter helplessness in the face of what I perceived as deep, lasting suffering on his part. So I prayed for him, for comfort. And even after the dream-sorrow had long faded, I went on to pray for the rest of my family, too.

When I was done, I started to wonder if maybe that is the only type of real prayer there is - the kind borne out of an honest acknowledgement of deep helplessness. Maybe folks who really pray a lot (not just fake it on the street corner to look spiritual) are just more in touch with the true reality of their helplessness.

Homeless people and drug addicts, I have found, pray more than most. They have very few illusions about how well they have things in control. They're desperate, see. So they cry out for help from the only thing that offers hope in a helpless situation - an all-powerful deity. But does the ocurrence of a prayer in a foxhole make it less authentic, less valuable? Or is it, rather, that only in foxholes can most of us ever acknowledge our weakness, mortality and vulnerability?

I think so. Philosophers tell us to live each day with our death before our eyes.

I think what they mean to say is "STOP PRETENDING! Acknowledge your weakness so that you can begin to slough off fantasy and begin to live a real life, not the life of dreams. That, I think, is what prayer is all about. Admitting reality so you can get your focus off of what you can't change and onto what you can.