...[Allie's] dead now. He got leukemia and died when we were up in Maine, on July 18, 1946. You'd have liked him. He was two years younger than I was, but he was about fifty times as intelligent. He was terrifically intelligent. His teachers were always writing letters to my mother telling her what a pleasure it was having a boy like Aliie in their class. And they weren't just shooting the crap. They really meant it. But it wasn't just that he was the most intelligent member in the family. He was also the nicest, in lots of ways...
Holden doesn't know what to do with the pain of Allie's death. The only way Holden ever expressed his grief was by breaking some windows and injuring his hand. Holden doesn't have a mother or father he can talk to. He doesn't have a mentor or friend. His spiritual life is nonexistent. He doesn't know how to pray. He feels like he's completely alone.
Today is the first Prayer of the Week post. To be honest, I put off typing this post all day long. I didn't know how to write a prayer. I think I'm a little too Catholic in my prayer life. I'm used to memorized prayers. Hail Marys. Glory Be's. Our Fathers. That kind of thing. However, one of my best friends is a United Methodist pastor, and I remember how he used to pray aloud when we were together. It was like he was talking to me when he prayed. There wasn't a lot of "Our Father, Who art in Heaven." There was a lot more of this kind of thing: "Dear God, I'm having a really shitty day. Here's why..." He was honest. Brutally honest. Sometimes he was angry or hurt or confused. But there was trust in his prayer, and a lot of love. I can do that kind of prayer.
So, here goes:
Dear God,
I want to talk to you about Dave. You know him. He sings and plays guitar and bass and violin in our band on Sunday mornings. His path to You wasn't easy. You know he was an alcoholic for many years. But he does amazing things now for You. He uses his musical gifts to glorify You, to spread Your word.
But You know all that crap. And You know he's sick now. Pancreatic cancer. He's been suffering a long time, but he never complains. These last couple of months have been tough for him, with chemo and doctor's visits and tests. Yet, when he shows up on Sunday mornings, he jokes, laughs, corrects my mistakes in his delicate way ("It's just a one, a four, a five, and a one chord! It's simple!"), and gives thanks to You.
I'm sure Dave has his dark times. I'm sure he gets pissed and sad. I'm sure he despairs. Yet, he never shows it. Ever. He's always full of peace and love, in his prickly, Dave way.
My prayer, God, is to give Dave strength. Bring him the healing he needs. Let him know that he's one of Your cherished children. I'm giving Him up to You, because You can do a hell of a lot more for him than I can. We love Dave, and we want him here, with us, because we're selfish.
Forgive our selfishness. We love him and want him with us as long as possible.
But, as the prayer goes, "Thy will be done." Hopefully, Your will is to let us have Dave a little longer.
You loving child,
Saint Marty
 |
| Dave's on the far right |
