Hi Boomer Friends, with the passing of the Pope, I am remembering what I learned in Catholic school, including prayers. In the opening chapter of “Beyond the Tears” I am repeating the Lord’s Prayer during a suicide attempt. The irony is that I had a difficult time as a child accepting God as the Father, because “father” provoked feelings of fear in me. Yet, as I approached death, I prayed to the Father. Indeed, I was rescued. During my darkest days of depression, I would repeat the Lord’s Prayer as if I was a cloistered nun! Even if I couldn’t connect with each word, the rhythm soothed my spirit. My grandmother, who is 98, was near death with pneumonia last summer. After a stay in the hospital, she was to enter a nursing home/rehab for follow-up care. The day before she was to enter the nursing home, she was so scared I thought she would will herself to die rather than go to rehab. I was in her kitchen, and I overheard her murmuring in her bed. She was murmuring in Italian, her native language. When I got closer, I recognized the rhythm of the murmuring as The Lord’s Prayer. So, I asked, “Grandma, do you want me to pray with you?” Of course she said yes. We held hands and said The Lord’s Prayer aloud. Last week, I was with my mother, helping her to arrange her final affairs. She said that at her funeral service, she wants the Lord’s Prayer recited. I pray in less formal ways now (a simple “thank you” will do) but the ritual of official prayer still resonates with me. How about you? How has prayer affected your daily life, or crisis situations?

Lynn,
Interesting seque here...can I share my "crisis" experience with the Lord's Prayer too?

I've believed in God all my life, and enjoyed a very strong, joyously life-giving, seemingly unshakeable faith for over 40 years. Never needed "signs", although I did have incredibly wonderful dreams that always seemed to speak whatever wisdom I needed at just the right time, even through my depression years. I just always believed.

Then my Dad died. And I mentioned in another post somewhere that the continuing absence of any sense of connectedness beyond his death devastated me, and threw me into a whirling maelstrom of doubt and crisis of faith. A crisis I'm still wrestling with, although I find that I'm closer to a more unconditional belief and love for God than ever before. It has become a deliberate choice to accept Him for who/what He chooses to be, and not insist He be who/what I want Him to be. To let God be God and let go of my paintbrush, which always wants to paint Him the way I think He should look and behave.

All through that crisis of faith, no matter how lost and, well, to be honest, even disgusted I became (Dad's death, 9/11, my Mom's death, etc, etc) with His apparent inactivity and silence, I never lost my profound desire to "come back Home", but couldn't get past my anger, and had to work hard to not let myself get completely lost. Praying became almost impossible, because I could no longer "look Him in the eye". All I could say was a very bitter "How could You let this happen? Where were You?" And then a montonous litany of tired "I'm sorry"'s.

Until one day I remembered the Lord's Prayer. Such a simple basic prayer, one recited so often since early childhood that it had become rote and meaningless. But all of a sudden it became my only link, my lifeline to something, someone I desperately didn't want to lose. It still is my strongest link, along with the wonderful caring church community that we found just before Mom died.

Now I've rediscovered the power in that simple prayer, and the caring compassion of a God who would give us such a perfect prayer for those times when we just don't know what else to say.

Dear Eagle, thank you for sharing your experience with God and prayer. I’m sorry to hear that your Dad and Mom died, and with that you lost a sense of connectedness. Dreams are one way of capturing the wisdom of the universe (I guess that’s why Native Americans create and hang “Dream catchers” over their beds.) I experienced a loss of intuition and insight for a while, and thereby could not interpret dreams. I needed the “writing on the wall.” I was so obtuse! I was also prone to self-pity and “why me?” I’ve learned a lot since then, including that I no longer ask God what He can do for me, but what can I do for Him (Him being the broader sense to include all that is creation, including the universe.) Another lesson is accepting the tasks that I am charged with, including being a voice for those confronted with violence, even when I’d rather be an actress accepting an Oscar! Anger is a part of the grieving process, whether we are grieving for a lost love one or the loss of a sense of safety. And “bargaining” is yet another part of that grief process: “If you do this one thing for me God, I promise I will do anything in return.” What you’ve shared about the recollection and reciting of the Lord’s Prayer as a lifeline is so eloquently expressed, and exactly what I was trying to say, too.

Important News Flash: Hobby Lobby has poster board on sale this week, just in time for us to start our treasure maps. How synchronistic!

Hi Dannye, I almost missed your post. In the message about going for your goals I credited Shatki Gwain of "Creative Visualization" as being the first I heard of to use the term treasure mapping. Do you use this technique in your workshops and on your CDs? It's hard for me to explain how the physical world will help manifest what the mind is already holding as truth. I hadn't thought of putting my own picture in place of ... Sounds silly, but I have gone as far as coloring a blonde depiction to brunette to match my own image!

Fiction or non-fiction? I had a difficult time deciding whether or not to fictionalize my story. The books “Black and Blue” by Anna Quindlan and “A Thousand Acres” by Jane Smiley are fictional accounts of some of the same topics I cover in my book, as was “We Were the Mulvaneys” all of which subsequently made movie of the week. I often wondered how much auto biography is incorporated into a work of fiction. For whatever reason, I have never been able to write fiction. Perhaps my memory is too intact: I recall conversations word-for-word and I can picture spatial scenes exactly as they were, even years later. Yet, reading and daydreaming were my favorite past times. With all that imagination flowing, I cannot conjure fiction. Even my early poems in 3rd grade were not fiction. Also, I was concerned about depicting the real members of my family as I perceive them to be: what would they think if they read of themselves in my book? Would they sue me? How can I be sued for telling my truth? The literary license I took was with making Karen a composite character. She is by no means fictional. And I changed names, but not places. How do you all reconcile fiction versus non-fiction? If you’ve written memoirs, what obstacles have you had to overcome to tell your truth?

Hi Lynn, I just returned from "our home land" and thought of you while there. I was wondering if like me, you have certain triggers in Phoenix? I noticed that I still do but they are much shorter in duration than they used to be.

Hi Dianne, I hope to hear more about your presentation at ASU. Yes, I have certain triggers there. For those who don’t know, a” trigger” is a term used to describe person, places, things that will bring on the “bad” feelings initially experienced during a “bad” experience. A trigger is different than a flashback in that there is more objectivity in a trigger, whereas a flashback will make the person who was abused feel as though the “bad” experience is actually happening again. There can be sensory triggers, such as a smell or sound. (That’s my layperson’s definition.) Dianne is referring to the fact that she and I both write about living in Phoenix metro, where we experienced abusive relationships. Most of the domestic violence I experienced occurred in Chandler, AZ. At the time, 30 years ago, Chandler was deserted desert, and now it is built up. My parents, who I visited last week, have retired two blocks from where I lived in 1974, the scene of the crimes. So, to get to and from their homes, I have to pass the exact place where I lived before. I was getting depressed each time I went by. The sight of the property I owned and passed by recently brought on the feelings of isolation and desperate loneliness. However, as Dianne said, each time I passed that area I felt more in control of the here and now, and was able to put that part of my life where it belongs, in the past. Dianne, what triggers you? If I were you, I’d probably never be able to get on a boat again

Here is a paragraph from my book stating how and why I bought desolate desert land. Todd is the man who married me. He was 18 years older. The ceremony refers to a marriage civil ceremony "Not long after that fateful ceremony, I turned twenty-one. Todd celebrated by asking me to use my trust fund to buy land in Chandler, Arizona. Past the dairy farm and the rodeo arena, there were alfalfa fields newly zoned for mobile homes. He said we could get rich quick on the land while living cheap in a trailer. Whenever I objected to moving out of town, Todd threw a fit, until it seemed easier to comply with his wishes than to confront his temper."

Here's what it was like for me living in that desolate desert: " it was too hot: one hundred degrees by 9 a.m., one hundred ten by noon. Even the weather forecasters spread rumors to make desert dwellers feel cooler in hundred-fifteen degree weather: “It’s a dry heat, with low humidity, so you barely feel it. You get used to it.” You have got to be kidding! When I fed the horse or got the mail, the scorching sun bit my skin as if I had collided with a prickly pear cactus. At the same time, residents were asked to avoid using excessive water to prevent drought conditions. Even after a short shower, perspiration poured from overburdened sweat glands.
To open windows was to allow the sour odor of urine and manure from the dairy farm to drift in. The neighbor’s chickens, crossing under the chain link fence for horse feed, caused yet another stench. So I applied sun-shield film to the panes, closed the drapes with their sun-repellent lining, and holed up in the trailer cave. The ineffective swamp cooler churned its clanging blades while spraying a mist of warm water.
In an effort to conserve my low energy reserves, I watched Good Morning America and Days of Our Lives, and read Jackie Collins’ “Valley of the Dolls” and Sidney Sheldon’s “Stranger in the Mirror.” I was indeed a stranger unto myself, sitting and smoking, and choking back tears. I missed the real challenge of college and the fantasy of rescue. I wasn’t a strong heroine able to flee from inner demons and Todd was no knight in shining armor slaying dragons."