This Sabbath I am driving 150 miles to see my mom through yet another chemo appointment. I used to listen to praise music in the car; now I just drown out my thoughts with news. My mom asks if I’m praying. I can’t tell her that I’m praying for this to end.
Carmen, the tiny terrorist, felt this way in Bel Canto.
“What she prayed for was nothing. She prayed that God would look on them and see the beauty of their existence and leave them alone.”
That sounds strangely comforting. Why can’t we just have a few beautiful months together without ports and prescriptions and vapid promises
As I drive, I feel mad at the Father, but strangely drawn toward the Son.
I can’t pray. I can’t even wrap my mind around God’s language. What I need is a good translator – a Gen. Someone who has infinite abilities with diverse tongues.
“When Carmen wanted the Almighty’s attention, she stood close to Father Arguedas, “to give her request extra credibility.”
Jesus, I will stand close to You today. My prayers may not be worthy, but I trust You to translate.