Toward peace
There's prayer, and then there's the wife and money trouble and Billy Graham.
Naturally I am writing about God and peacemaking while clueless how to live at peace with the ones I love. It came to a head the other night — I was knocking on the ceiling in the dark to chase off a possum in the attic. I reared up on the middle of the bed for better balance, and drove my fist straight through an overhead light fixture, glass raining everywhere. No one was cut, and no one said a word while I stood frozen in this militant disgrace. So we settled in to pluck shards from the bedspread, an almost lovely interlude of tactile self-preservation, and my wife didn’t criticize.
But neither could she sleep, and then some fragile anxiety was ventured about money, and how she couldn’t budget if there was nothing coming in. She was asking for reassurances, but I felt attacked, a loser both at money and at love; like G.B. Shaw, who could “sympathize with anything but suffering,” I am perfectly capable of listening with compassion to anyone who doesn’t require it. I raised my voice to be heard, she threatened to leave the room, I demanded she leave the room — which is how we wound up barely talking until bedtime the next night. And I hope that God’s triumph has been awaiting this human collapse.
In the morning, I sat a long time praying to learn how to love. This with the candles from the previous night’s memorial vigil still spread out across the porch. But my first well-intentioned thought had been for my wife to pray — she being the one who’d felt aggrieved. As a point of genuine curiosity, has anyone ever inspired others to pray by pointing out their failure to pray? I’ve been glad this week to live in a nation that doesn’t do that, much. I’ve been glad to attend a church whose pastor says he feels humbled as a believer by the humility of nonbelievers — by their compassionate art of listening to one another.
At a family party Saturday, one of my wife’s relatives said her son, the minister, had phoned to ask for her suggestions as he prepared his Sunday sermon — as it happens, I am surrounded more and more by people who “pray for the nation” even when the nation isn’t at war, who pray for God’s hand to be with Our President and who take for granted that prayer “works.” I’ve been changed enough by prayers of my own to have learned to pay attention after praying. So I did, and felt seriously incriminated when this aunt who knew nothing of my screw-ups at home took my arm to make the trembling announcement that she made to her son the minister: It’s a good time to treat your loved ones with respect. I felt incriminated not just by how often I’m wrong, but by the fact that I was middle-aged myself before I started to see a bunch of gray-headed fundamentalists as messengers and angels.
Alan Rifkin has written for a distressing number of magazines no longer in existence -- Buzz, LA Style, Equator, The Quarterly -- as well as LA Weekly, Details, Premiere and the Los Angeles Times Magazine. More Alan Rifkin.






Comments
0 Comments