Tuesday, 17 February 2009

• Logic Aside, Prayer feels good.

  "Mom" he says to me through the door that divides us, his voice sounding weak and muffled by the distance. "Can I come in?" he asks as politely as he can muster.I wipe my tear stained face, news coming across in emails that morning that had turned the weekend into a quivering lump of worthlessness. He and his brother had only been home for a few hours due to some wicked car trouble at dad's house. He had heard me, even though I had tried to stifle the quiet tears by sobbing into my pillow. Without waiting for an answer, he opened the door of my bedroom and tip toed over to my bed, resting his hand on my shoulder.
  
  He looked so much older this week, the color in his eyes slightly drained from the weeks worth of drama detail. He has had a difficult life in these short 7 years and I could see it on his face. I smiled at him the best I could and pulled him into bed with me. Im a firm believer in being honest with my children and talking with them about their lives, instead of ignoring the facts and pretending to be perfect.
  
  "Were you crying, mom?" He matter-of-facts me like a sucker punch to the nose.
  
  "I was" I tell him, putting my strong mommy hat back on and sucking back the inevitable sobs and choking that sound that seeps from my chest whenever I am deeply saddened by something. "I am very sad today, and Im sorry that I am sad while you are here." I tell him, trying to be reassuring. "I promise it has nothing to do with you, mommy is just sad about work." It was the truth, nothing anyone had done had made me sad, it was just a disapointing and confusing set of circumstances. I weighed the pro's and con's of explaining it all to him, he has been through so much that I dare not burden him with problems during his visits. I breath in sharply, waiting for the hammer to drop and the questions to resume.
  
  "Do you want to pray?" He asks me, shocking my system better than any defibrillator could ever do. We have folded our hands as a family on many occassions, but a lazy sunday morning generally wasn't the time nor the place. We have always been a logical group, prayer was reserved to blessing our food (may it  bless and nourish our bodies) and for saying goodnight. Praying wasn't something we turned to in a problem situation, we always hunkered down together to weather the storms,  but he seemed sure and solid in his path.
  
  He folded his hands in front of his face and tilted his head to the floor. He squeaked out a quick prayer while I sat wide-eyed staring at him. He showed such reverence, such solace. When he was finished, he peeked out of one eye at me, smiling ear to ear. "Feel better?" he asks as I nod in utter amazement. I did feel better, I dont know why, but I did. He hops off the bed, and turns only once he reached the doorway. "Now get up, we have work to do." he says with a tone of confidence, I wonder if he had gotten that tone from television's version of the strict authoritative parent. I listen, pulling my body from the covers, feeling like mollasses under the weight of that morning. "What work do we have to do?" I ask him, pulling my hair back into a pony tail and pushing a pair of sunglasses up the bridge of my nose.
  
  "We have snowflakes to make" he giggles, and bounds down the stairs with me right behind.
  
  We did have snowflakes to make, purple and orange ones from construction paper half a decade old, still wrapped tightly in its package. We made tiny one's and gigantic ones. We pasted them merrily to the fridge, and by the time all was said and done, I had forgetten all about being sad. Perhaps prayer isnt so bad after all.
  
  

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