April 2006 | Journeys
Life as an Endless Prayer
By Bill Strubbe
Naturally inclined to the world of the spirit, I’ve often fantasized about becoming a monk. The inducements are clear: a cloistered life in some tranquil setting with prayer and contemplation as the backbone of daily routine. Amid traffic snarls, signs of global warming, overseas outsourcing of jobs, a war based on lies and deception, a president with the apparent IQ of a standing rib roast, and the dismaying pronouncement that the 100 trillionth Big Whopper was just consumed, the monastic life does seem a saner alternative.
The life of the spirit still beckons, but God — in Her infinite wisdom — has another calling in mind for me, for most of us: Learning to balance the sacred and the profane in a precious juggling act of daily life. Amidst the hubbub, one can find moments to give heart-felt thanks, steal moments of meditative silence, or slip into prayer.
I remember when it first began. The carnage in Bosnia was in full tilt and my psyche — despite having confronted the horror of the Holocaust, the mire of Middle East politics, and the AIDS devastation in Africa — somehow rebelled at reading about the hopelessness of that particular hatred gone amok.
On the verge of tears, as I shoved a newspaper aside, I beheld in my mind an image of a Bosnian boy, alone and afraid, marooned in the Balkan nightmare.
I longed to swoop down and carry him away to a safe place. Instead of despairing, I began to pray for his guardian angel to lead him to safety; for the grace of God to cloak this child in solace and comfort. I don’t know whether this was a genuine vision or just my over-active imagination, but the sense of purpose and serenity filling me trumped all uncertainty.
As the atrocities escalated in the ensuing weeks, I frequently prayed for this boy: “May he be delivered from sniper bullets; May something nourishing fill his stomach; May a found jacket keep him warm; May a reassuring hug envelope him.”
As I was weeding the garden several months later, I again thought of this distant child. Instead of praying for his corporeal needs, I asked that he would sense — despite seeming evidence to the contrary — that beyond all the turmoil and hate, there is love. Then it occurred to me that my Bosnian boy might be dying. In the pumpkin patch, I dropped to my knees and prayed: “Let him not die alone and afraid….”
Since that day, Russians have been trapped in submarines, earthquakes have tumbled cities, airplanes have crashed into buildings, tsunamis have swept away families, shock-and-awe bombings have pulverized lives, and miners have suffocated in deep shafts. Instead of succumbing to sadness and helplessness, I continue to send money or involve myself in appropriate activism. But now there is something new: I offer a prayer for the souls of the deceased, a prayer for consolation to the survivors, a prayer that justice will be served and that something will be learned from each calamity that may prevent a similar event from happening in the future.
I’ve learned that a contemplative life need not confine prayer and meditation to an abbey, desert cave, or a weekend retreat, but instead we can integrate it into our mundane — and fabulous — lives. I’ve managed to transform numerous odious facts of life into moments of respite: A red light is no longer an obstacle to my race across town, but an interlude for relaxed breaths or thanks for the good of the day. When I’m stuck in traffic, rather than joining the cacophony of irate drivers cursing the delay, I pray that, if it was caused by an accident and someone is hurt, that they may be calmed by the Living Light. Lately, I’ve transformed my 20 minutes on the treadmill into an act beyond burning excess fat into mediation in motion. (A word of caution; if you close your eyes, keep a grip on the handrail.)
Now, at the first wail of an ambulance siren, I send out a prayer. When I read the names of soldiers killed in Iraq, I send love to them and their families. When the radio announces another tragedy, I send a prayer out across the world. And when walking past homeless on the street, if I’m unable to extract anything from my pockets, I offer a hello and send a silent prayer. Feeling less like a mere voyeur to these sorrows of life, I acknowledge, through prayer, the inextricable web of all life, including my own.
Short of giving someone a million dollars, upholding each other in prayer is, I believe, the least — and the most — we can offer each other. The miracle of prayer, far beyond our limited comprehension, is an act of faith able to move mountains, change hearts, synchronize a “coincidence” into a miracle and, most importantly, an exercise that fills one’s heart with empathy and compassion. When practiced mindfully, prayer can transform the supplicant as much, if not more, than the recipient.
Bill Strubbe is an Oakland-based freelance writer, photographer, world traveler, and dreamer of peace.
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