Pray Like a Child
I recently came across a digital file that contains some incomplete blog posts. This one was dictated into Apple Notes on my phone after a surgical procedure on my right hand in May 2019. I completely forgot about it. After reviewing it again, I can see the flow of uninhibited consciousness and TMI honesty. As well as the effects of coming out of anesthesia.
I had surgery today. I am not going for sympathy; I just have to preface this part of the story by telling you I had a surgical procedure this morning, and I was under heavy anesthesia. One of the first things they tell you about anesthesia is that you shouldn’t make any major decisions. Your memory will be fuzzy, and you won’t remember a lot of things that you said or were said to you. This can last up to 12 hours post-op. Right now, I’m about nine hours out of my surgery, and I had a profound thought.
I’m sitting on a toilet in a hotel room in Novato, California. Leroy is out in the room watching the Warriors game, and I am in here dictating these words on my iPhone. Why? Because I had surgery on my right hand, I can’t text or type. I am learning to write things down as they come to me because my memory is not what it used to be. Even when I am not under anesthesia.
The doctor has advised me to convalesce for about 10 days and read lots of books if that’s my thing. Fortunately, it is my thing. So I picked up a book a few minutes ago, and the author told a story about how she used to pray as a child. Prayer came easily to her. She prayed uninhibited. She prayed with full faith. She prayed with confidence. I suddenly had a flashback of my own childhood and a particular fervent prayer.
I can play the videotape in my head very easily. I was in a dress, which was unusual for me as a child. Actually, it’s unusual for me as an adult, too. The dress indicates it was a special occasion, and I was looking for a particular plastic flower that I had brought home from my time in Kauai, Hawaii, with my cousins. I was supposed to wear the flower in my hair, and I couldn’t find it. I was young, but I don’t remember my exact age. Maybe I was still in Hawaii. Maybe that’s why I found it so easy to pray. I was late, people were waiting, and I needed that damn flower. I hit my knees and prayed that the flower would be at the top of my suitcase. Pretty specific, huh? I basically told God where to put the flower so I could find it. And guess what? He did. I open my eyes, flipped up in the suitcase. And there was the flower waiting for me. This was not magical hocus hocus. It was an answered prayer. I knew it then, and I know it now.
I don’t think I have prayed like that since. I’m going to be honest: it freaked me out a little. One of the best moments of my Catholic conversion was learning about Saint Anthony, the patron saint of lost things. You say a little prayer, and Saint Anthony helps you find your lost item. “Saint Anthony, Saint Anthony, please come around. My flower is lost and needs to be found.” I’ve used this prayer a couple of times as an adult, and it freaks me out. But, for me, going to St. Anthony is easier. At least I’m not bothering God. I mean, what’s a flower to Him? He’s got world peace to worry about.
I want to pray like that child again. For the last year and a half, I have been dancing around the solutions to allow her to come back with her confidence. She sneaks up on me for a while, but then I shove back down into her hiding place. She’s the me I want to be. I want to be as creative as she is. I want to be brave like her. I want to be as authentic as she is. I want to be as faithful as she is. I want to be me again. I need to be reminded that I am a conduit of God’s love, mercy, and creativity. I want to embrace that, not fear it.
This post is going to take a lot of editing. I have to change every instance of the name Anastasia to the term anesthesia. I think I’ve got the gist of it, though. I think I’ll remember my thoughts at this moment. That is my prayer.
