Now I lay me down to sleep
I pray the Lord my soul to keep
If I should die before I wake
I pray the Lord my soul to take.
I remember.
I’d pray this little prayer every night in my head in my little bed in the little (I mean little–I stood in it again this summer) room that I shared with my brother and sister. Later I added the Lord’s Prayer. Together they made up my before-I-go-to-sleep ritual through nursing school and even after.
I prayed another prayer. “God, I’m going outside now. When I come back I want a whole pile of money on the bed.”
I guess I took the whole ask-and-you’ll-receive thing a bit far.
He never answered that prayer, and I began to doubt.
Then there was this one, when Grandma Dummer lay in a hospital bed–pneumonia, I think.
“God, please don’t let her die. I’m only ten. I think I could handle it better when I’m eleven.”
He didn’t answer that one, either.
Today I pulled out my prayer journal.
A prayer folder, really. Stuffed with sheets torn from various notebooks. I spread them out on Lil’s highchair tray. There are the ones that start in January 1980, written out with a blue fountain pen, the one with the cartridge.
January 15, 1980: “Lord, drum into this styrofoam head that I need approval from no man.”
Styrofoam? Huh?
February 5, 1980: “Why am I so tired all the time? I can’t concentrate on friends or conversation and am absolutely no help to anyone!”
August 8, 1980: “Oh, to have the patience of Mama Mouse with six young nursing ones attached firmly to her pregnant tummy as she walked around her aquarium!”
Say what?
February 3, 1981: Lord, I trust in your timing, in your purpose. Yet I’m so disappointed. My period started last night.
March 8, 1981: Lord, I want to write!
July 21, 1981: I yelled! How ugly the words! How can I be so awful? How could I make this such a miserable night?
July 22, 1981: All I want is your will for my life. I want to know you.
July 22, 1981: I’m crying again. I’m doing it a lot. Will I ever grow up?
October 4, 1981, (2 a.m.): In pursuit.
October 5, 1981: Today I mail my first article to a Christian magazine.
I find thoughts about resigning jobs, leaving churches, moving, infertility, marriage and money struggles, surgery, the adoption of our firstborn.
I find high and flowery words. “Goofy” thoughts. Tear-smeared pages.
I find steno pages taped to three-holed 8-1/2 by 11 pages, and I find pages from my 5-1/2 by 8 planner.
I find a shift of writing from right slant to vertical back to right slant.
Some pages neat. Some pages total scribble.
And I know, because I remember, some pages are missing.
The pages I have are filled with exuberant joy and crushing sorrow poured from the heart.
And some are all prissy and proper Christianese.
I remember times when I could not write or pray. When I could only fall on my knees and sob. When I would walk through my daughter’s room and lay hands on the door, the wall, the furniture, her radio.
I remember screaming at God for not answering prayers, for not protecting her, for not slamming doors to pain.
I remember sitting in the car and telling my husband that I could not pray one more prayer, that I was tired, oh so tired, and I just wanted it all to end.
I wanted me to end.
I remember prayers scribbled in bound notebooks, since thrown away for fear someone would see and hurt.
Since then, I’ve journaled, stopped, started, tossed.
Last week I could not pray. Oh, I think I may have offered a before-meal blessing, but for the most part there was this ache, this yearning, this groaning, in a place where His presence pressed. And I could hardly speak of Him without tears.
But it was all good, very good.
And I’ve been thinking.
Maybe it’s time to start a new journal.
An honest journal.
With bound pages not so easily destroyed.
Where I can find my soul before I die.
And where, maybe, in the finding, in the reading, someone else can find theirs.
Yes! Begin the new journal. Listen to His words. Share them with your heart and with the rest of us!
You’re such an encouragement, my friend.
There is much this makes me want to say, at the same time it makes me want to hush.
I’m going with the hush.
Beautiful, Sandy. Truly.
I love that now I can hear the voices behind the written. Even in the hush.
Maybe every time you find yourself writing prissy, proper Christianese you could fine yourself a dollar. And start saving for next year’s retreat. Cause there’s prayer in your words, sweet friend.
I, too, have walked through bedrooms, laying on hands as prayer. I think that’s a really good kind.
Oh, good one, Nancy! Shall I fine myself double or triple when I spill the ugly?
This is so very good … going with the hush above.
I’m hushed by the response.
I’ve never been successful at journaling of the traditional sort: too lonely! Also, I understand the uncertainty of what to do with certain words (mine and others’) after they’ve been written. I threw away a box of old letters just last week. It nearly broke my heart to do it, but I had to do it.
As a last thought: don’t you think it’s a fine line we tread between not-honest-enough and too-honest?
I sometimes feel constrained, Brandee, for fear of hurting someone with my too-honest thoughts. Sometimes my writing becomes a vent–something maybe only God and I should read. 😉
I love your heart and your raw honesty in this piece. “Where I can find my soul before I die.” That line, and then the hope to shed light on another’s path. So lovely. Thank you.
Thank you, Jeanne. You always bless me when you swing by. xoxo
My parents rewrote that prayer when they taught it to me. Here’s their version:
“Now I lay me down to sleep,
I pray the Lord my soul to keep,
Guide me through the starry night
And wake me when the sun shines bright.”
I think it was their way of trying to write the story they wanted for me. And for them. I wonder if the whole dying before I wake part scared them…so they just decided to toss it.
I taught it to my kids as “Angels guard me through the night, and wake me in the morning light.” I think that was what one of those Precious Moments angels recited when we wound her up.
If this is a taste of what’s to come, bring it!
🙂
This has undone me.
Sandy, I think in your honesty here, you’ve peeled something back that I’ve been hiding from. Or under.
I suppose now I need to think about this.
Thank you.
Is that a good thing or a bad thing? Love you, Sheila.
It’s a hard thing.
Love you, too.
Hard can be good . . .
You touched on the hard thing in your comment about the lost years….when I fled in 2006, I left everything behind…photos, writing, 40 linear feet of books, my musical instruments….
It’s a little lonely to be 52 and have only 5 years of my history.
I have no words. But I wish I could reach through this screen and hug you tight. Looking around at all my “stuff” and loosening my fingers a little more. xoxo
Hugging you right back.
I won’t say more, this isn’t the place, but I was not a victim. I chose my path.
And I thank God for His redeeming grace.
This is so real Sandy – so poignant. I can see so much of my own journey in your words. Your writing is so powerful. I hope you’ll start that new Journal.
I’m kind of sad about the lost years. Some of those were pages I threw away. Maybe some things should stay lost. Yes, I’m going to start again. Of course, a blog kind of acts like one, right?
Ah, ah, ah. Yes. This. So real, so raw, so true. Thank you. I’m joining the hush now… (but more, please – and yes to that journal!)
Thank you so much, Diana. You are such a treasure.
Oh this so real. I am so thankful you shared your journey with us. God wants our raw and honest heart with his always.
Beautiful, sharing with us a prayer journal entry right here on the blog too, wouldn’t you say, Sandy? 🙂 I wish I went to the High Calling Retreat — I saw your entry and wish I was there to hug you and hike and enjoy you LIVE. Someday…