Dad's Prayers

Living in a Body

Dad's Prayers

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Dad's Prayers

Episode 63 -- The Blessing Before the Meal

Hal Walker

Jul 29, 2023

Hi. I’m sorry to report that in the last two weeks ago, I’ve experienced a significant setback in my ME/CFS symptoms. I’m very distraught about it. Living in the current state of my body has been so incredibly difficult . I’m grateful for this Substack that gives me something to distract myself from the discomfort. Thank you for being here. For the podcast version, I hope you’ll click the PLAY button above. (15 min) Enjoy.

Dad’s Prayers

Growing up in my household, it was my dad who said the prayer before the meal. With a soothing southern baritone drawl, Dad would ease God into the room and bring warmth and connection to whomever was gathered. Whatever the setting, my dad's elevated words called the spirit to be present. Whether it was praying before the meal of a community potluck or circling up around the table with family, Dad's prayers welcomed us home into the sacred.

Rev. Harold Walker Jr. came from a tradition of prayer. In his lifetime, he devoured every dense liberal theology book ever written. The language of prayer was deeply ingrained in his being. His words were grounded in the long history of the Presbyterian Church but he was a master at adapting those words to fit any multi-faith situation. He knew how to improvise sacred language off the top of his head and he didn't just speak the words. With the theatricality of a preacher and the musicality of an Alabamian, dad would practically intone the prayer. I miss my dad's voice so much.

He spoke with ease and formality. His prayers brought ceremony to the act of sharing a meal in community. When we circled up in the living room on Thanksgiving or Christmas or Easter, sometimes battling the blasphemy of his children and his grandchildren, Dad held dear to the depth and the importance of this pre-meal ritual.

Never self conscious or self centered, his prayers were for the people. He prayed for world community, for a transformed society and for those near and far who are less fortunate than we. He gave thanks for the food and for the blessing of family and friends. Sometimes, his prayers went on for quite some length. But around the nightly dinner table, they were succinct and they followed the same nameless form, the form that became so familiar in the lives of my family and everyone who knew my dad. Sometimes, he wrote prayers out for special occasions. Here's one he wrote for the occasion of an interfaith Kent Community Potluck: (text below)

“Spirit of God, we pause in reverence and in praise for the good gift of life, and for this wondrous world in which we live and move and have our being. We are humbled and amazed when we think about the richness and diversity of this human family -- the myriads of groups and associations in which we realize our humanity -- and the conflicts and the challenges of our common life. Our thoughts go out to neighbors near and far, in any place, who may feel excluded, or who feel hurt and hunger or who are the sad victims of violence. May your spirit teach us to be instruments of healing and of peace.
We celebrate our life together and we celebrate the spirit of community which invites and unites us who are gathered at this table. May this be for us a symbol of the vision of friendship and of peace which calls us to the shaping of more humane communities in which all people share the good gifts of the earth and in which all may revel in the general dance of your creation.
May peace abide at these tables and may we all be filled with the spirit of gratitude, of friendship and of hope. Receive our thanks for this meal and all that it represents. In your spirit we pray. Amen.”

When my dad died, there entered a void in my family where his prayers used to be. Six years later, when we gather for dinner, we're still not quite sure what to do when we circle up. We haven't found a clear replacement. My mom often asks one of us to read one of Dad's composed prayers. Sometimes we sing a song that Johanna and I learned in Western Massachusetts many years ago.

The silver rain, the shining sun and fields where scarlet poppies run
And all the ripples of the wheat. Are in the bread that I do eat..
So as I sit at every meal and sing a grace I always feel
That I am eating rain and sun and fields where scarlet poppies run.

Sometimes my eldest sister Julie will recite the great poem by Richard Euringer:

O Thou who clothest the lilies
And feedest the birds of the sky
Who leadest the lambs to the pasture
And the hart to the waterside
Who hast multiplied loaves and fishes
And converted water into wine
Do thou come to our table
As guest and giver to dine.

Sometimes we sing a hymn. Sometimes we go around the circle and say something we’re grateful for. Sometimes we just dive in and start eating. Pretty much always we break into a funny and sacrilegious version of the old spiritual “Amen. Amen. Amen. Amen. Amen.” The second verse goes, “A-women, A-women, A-women, A-women, A-women.” And Then it goes on from there. It’s quite hilarious. My dad always hated it though.

When Dad died in 2017, the extended family gathered at my mom's house after the memorial service. I remember being well aware that there was no one present who could handle the depth of our need for a unifying blessing before the meal. As the only son, I felt a great sense of pressure to step up and fill the void. I was terrified. But with a tremble in my voice, in front all the sisters and the cousins and the aunts and the uncles, I opened my mouth and I started praying. I don't remember what I said but I remember that it was honest and it came from the heart. When I was done, I was glad that I did it. At the family reunion last month, I didn't have such courage. Night after night, I looked to my sisters to come up with an idea for gathering. I was too scared to be so vulnerable. As the son of the master of praying in public, I was afraid to open my mouth.

I’m so curious what my dad’s personal prayer life was like. As far as I know, he didn’t pray before bed or upon wakening. I'd love to be able to sit down with him and ask him all about it, but I’ve missed my opportunity to do that. I have a feeling that his prayer life happened while he was working in the garden, doing laps in the swimming pool, reading a book on a porch in Chautauqua or pondering the world with his friend Lloyd O’Keefe.

Wherever he is in the vastness of the universe, I regularly speak out loud to my dad. Lately I've been saying, "Dad. I'm scared." And then I start crying. And then he responds with something like, "I love you, son. I’m so proud of you, son. I'm sorry it's been so hard. It's gonna be ok, Hal. I’m here with you." I'm crying right now as I write this.

I'd like to say some sort of prayer now — a personal prayer. But I’m afraid. Who am I to say a prayer in public? I’m a musician. I’m a performer. I’m a banakula player. I don’t know how to pray. I don't have the humility to pray. I don’t have the tradition and I don’t know the form to pray. Heck. I don't even believe in God. Or maybe it's "belief" that I don't believe in. My friend Pádraig says it well, "Whatever the mystery of the source of all things is, 'belief' is a weak verb for talking about it. I can't bear that burden. Maybe I can Behold. Question. Argue. Circle. Anything is better than belief."

So, from this bed of yearning, this house of doubt, and this body full of illness and fear, I call out to the highest power that is and I pray.

Dad. Granddad. Are you there?
Earth. Can you hear me?
Angels. Please gather around me. I command you. I need your help.
God, you know my heart. Do I really have to say anything. When I get on my knees, I just start crying.
I'm so scared. I’ve been so sick and so scared all day. This illness has a hold on me and it’s terrifying. The symptoms have been so severe and I’m having a hard time handling it. The grief alone seems more than I can handle. It’s so hard, God. Please ease my suffering.
Here’s what I ask. Fill my whole self with a sense of safety. Comfort me from the inside. I’m begging you. Please ease my tender nerves and quiet my desperate thinking.
By the way, thank you for this moment. Thank you for the breath that I have and thank you for the connections that I made today. Thank you for Stu and Pádraig and Andrew and Margot and Anne and Steve and David. I’m especially grateful for that long hug when I cried in David’s arms. I’m so grateful to have these people in my life. Remind me that I’m not alone.
Ease my thinking, God. Help me to stay free from panic and despair. Return me to the reality of this moment and show me where I can be useful. I want to be useful . I want so badly to go back out into the world and do the things I love to do. I really just want my body back. But I have a feeling that that’s not your job.
How could this illness be an actual thing? It’s so cruel. Right now, I’m sending love to all the people who are suffering with ME/CFS. I’m sending all my love to Peggy and Martin and Lizzie and Whitney and all those that have got it even worse than I. Somehow, show us how to survive this, one day at a time.
Make me an instrument of your peace, God. Let me be an example of living gracefully under challenging circumstances. Relieve me of the fear, the self-pity, the despondency and the hopelessness. Free my heart and fill it with gratitude.
Thank you.
And as my dad would say, in your spirit, we pray.
Amen.

Thank you so much for reading and thank you for listening. I’m so glad that I have this platform. I hope you’ll leave a comment. I need encouraging words in the comments. :) Remember… enjoy living in that body of yours. It’s not gonna be around forever. Take advantage of it while you got it. Sending you all my love. See you next time. ❤️ Hal