Guest post by Suzanne M. Wolfe
About a year ago I felt an overpowering urge to say the “Our Father.” I’m still not sure why. I never knew my biological father, so I’ve always been indifferent to this prayer, the only prayer Jesus taught us. In the back of my mind I’d think: He’s not my father. I don’t have a father.
And my heart would be empty even as my mouth said the words.
Until that moment my habit had been to say part one of my prayers lying in bed before reading for an hour, then part two after I turned out the light. There was no mystical or theological reason for dividing up my prayers, sandwiching the secular (currently the novels of Dennis Lehane) between the sacred, albeit rote, words of the “Glory Be,” the “Hail Mary,” and the prayer for the dead.
I suspect it was like stopping halfway up the mountain, claiming to admire the view when it’s really all those damn cigarettes making my heart thump like a jackhammer, my lungs wheeze like a broken bellows.