Porch Conversation

Larry and I were talking on the porch the other morning as we drank our coffee. These morning conversations take circuitous routes, starting with the hummingbirds, moving on to the dogs and the cats to what is wrong with the riding mower to what canning needs to be done. This particular morning the conversation included some political talk too, as we discussed how the President's pastor seemed to be advocating for a nuclear attack on Korea, and how religion has in some cases been so twisted and so far from what it should be--or what it should be in our view anyway.

This led to talking about praying. For those of you on Facebook, you know how many prayer requests come on any given day. Some for terrible, serious events in our friends' lives, others for what seem to be pretty trivial reasons, still others so vague that no one really knows what they've been asked to pray for.

I remember as a child we said the rosary in our very Catholic home almost every night for years. The custom pretty much ended when Mom began working evenings. I guess Dad didn't have the heart to continue it without her, although he did try. By then my older brothers were working and seldom came home after school, often rolling in late at night; the times were changing and everyone seemed to be on the go. I moved out when I was seventeen, and I do not know if the rosary was continued after that for the rest of the family or not. But when my parents were elderly they joined several prayer warrior groups, and prayed a lot, both morning and evening, for long lists of people. They also said the rosary every night as part of their prayer rituals.

After Mom's death, I would call my father every evening and say the rosary over the phone with him. I had long ceased going to church and the words were rusty and strange at first, but as the months passed I got better at it, even remembering the various mysteries. Those were tranquil times; Dad and I would talk a long time both before and after the rosary and I got to know my father better than I ever had. We were complete political opposites but that didn't matter. I did not argue with him about his views, because what would be the point? He was 83 years old and not likely to change; arguing would have only upset him and that was the last thing I wanted to do, as he was dealing bravely with the grief of losing his love of 61 years. The last time I talked to him, the evening before he died, we'd said the rosary, and as one of my intentions, he asked me to pray for him, something he'd never asked for before. I should have realized that he know he was close to death. I treasure the memory of those evening phone calls.

As Larry and I talked that morning, our conversation moved on to those calls with my Dad, and how being religious or spiritual doesn't necessarily mean going to a church, it can happen anywhere. Then Larry said, "I remember one neighbor, well he and another man would go out in the middle of the road and pray."

"What?" I asked. "In the middle of the road? Literally in the middle of the road?"

"Yes, they'd kneel right down in the road and pray sometimes. I don't know why, but I remember seeing them do it. No one seemed to think a thing about it."

Vincent Van Gogh, Man Praying, 1883.

I try to envision these two men, both coalminers, probably wearing bib overalls, on their knees in the road praying out loud, and the neighbors just passing by with a nod, and maybe a word or two. Why would they pray like that? What were they praying for?

One of the men, Larry said, had a large family, 11 or 12 children. They lived in a house with a dirt floor, although in earlier years they'd had a big house with lots of windows. He didn't know what had happened that made them move to the small, dirt-floored house. Maybe an injury in the mines; the man couldn't work, so he wouldn't get paid and there was no disability or worker's comp pay back then. Maybe the mines had shut down for a while, putting the man out of work. So many things could happen in the days before the social safety net was in place. Larry said the man's wife had the biggest, widest feet he'd ever seen, and that her feet were so tough she could have walked on hot coals and not felt the burn.

Another thing he remembered--the man was hard on his family, and drank a bit. His wife left him a few times but she had to come back because she had no skills beyond housework and cooking and couldn't survive on her own. And then there was all those children who needed her. Despite her husband's temper, she would return. Maybe this was why his friend took him out to the middle of the road to pray?

I will never know the answer to that question, but this story, like so many of Larry's memories, tells certainly recalls a time and place, where life was hard, the people harder, and where the power of prayer was probably called upon regularly to help them get through troubled times.


Copyright Susanna Holstein. All rights reserved. No Republication or Redistribution Allowed without attribution to Susanna Holstein.

Pilgrimage

Two and a half years ago I found a website that told of a sculpture located deep in the country at a little country church. According to that post, the sculpture was seen in France by a soldier during World War I. After the war he came back to the US and raised money to buy and relocate the sculpture to his church in West Virginia. We had been on the little gravel road that led to the church but had turned around before reaching it, having no idea that such a treasure waited a little further down the road.

This past week we were again in the area where the church and the sculpture are located and I was determined to find it. I was intrigued that a statue would so inspire someone that he would go to such lengths to bring it into his daily life. So we retraced our steps.

It seemed that my memory was wrong at first. The road narrowed to two tracks with grass growing in between. We kept going because the gravel was well kept and we reasoned that road had to go somewhere. The all-wheel-drive is not working in my car right now so I was a little worried that we might end up in a place where we needed it, but suddenly the gravel turned to asphalt, and there on our left was a little white Catholic church. Was it the right place? My memory of what I had read said the church was a Lutheran one. Then I saw it--high on the hill in the cemetery. We started the climb.

We passed graves old and new, most with German names and a few with Irish. Some stones have evidently been replaced over the years, evidence of continued care. Flowers bloomed and a soft breeze rustled the leaves of the quiet valley around us.

I wish I had words to describe this sculpture, but perhaps my photos will say it for me:

I tried to find the post that originally sparked my interest in this sculpture but it is no longer make available online. I have also not been able to find any other information about this sculpture online and I wonder about that. I have not said in this post the exact location of the church in case there is a reason for the lack of information (like trying to protect it from vandals). If you would like to make your own journey, please send me an email and I will be happy to send directions. It is an experience I will not forget. A place to lay down troubles and to realize that our sufferings pale in comparison; a place to bow your head and let peace surround you. It was a place I needed to be, and the time I needed to be there.

Copyright 2012 Susanna Holstein. All rights reserved. No Republication or Redistribution Allowed without attribution to Susanna Holstein.

Prayers Needed

To any readers who pray:

Please include my sister's daughter-in-law Courtney on your prayer lists. Courtney has a tumor near her brain that has metastisized. She has two lovely little babies, and she is a lovely person herself.

Courtney needs all the prayers, energy, thoughts and good wishes we can send her.

Please add Courtney Towne to your list of people who need us all to pull for them.

Thank you.