PRAYING

Many of us go back to where we were raised after some years—we might go back physically, but we return mentally, too. I recently attended a Sunday school class at the Church of Horseshoe Bay. When I heard a recording of an old familiar gospel song by Alan Jackson, tears began creeping down my cheeks. I couldn't stop it, hard as I tried. Reagan Lambert was the teacher for that particular Sunday. His lesson was about prayers and praying. Reagan made a statement that resonated with me: "I had a drug problem growing up. My parents drug me to church every time the doors were open." Well, Reagan, I had the same "drug" problem. Only, I deeply resented going to church all the time--Sunday school, Sunday morning church service with Bible classes on Sunday night followed by another church service. That wasn't all--we had Wednesday night church service, too! If there was a revival, we were there every night. The preachers usually spoke from a position of "Hell, fire, and brimstone," as if scaring us to death would make us believers. I didn't buy it. Even at an early age, I felt disconnected from what I heard and how people behaved outside the church building. I wandered far away from anything remotely smacking of organized religion, only to slowly drift back when raising my daughter. On a recent Sunday, in my heart, I returned to my childhood and the church we attended every time the doors were open. The music I heard while I was in the church of my youth somehow reached down inside me and stayed all these years.  

Don't get me wrong about my fickle faith. I attend church when the mood strikes me. Many Sundays, I don't attend church because I'm corralling my 2 and 4-year-old grandbabies. They are about as close to God as I can possibly get. Our ministers at the Church of Horseshoe Bay are entirely different from those I heard growing up. They preach about loving one another and encourage us to be better people. They do not teach from a position of threatening damnation if we don't buy what they're promoting. I like that.

The sweetness of believing in something higher than us is comforting, especially when life knocks us down. Opening myself to sharing faith with people of like minds is hard to achieve other than attending a worship service. Even in the silence of being alone and far away from any church, God is omniscient and hears my prayers. 

I don't think much about organized religion--my relationship with God is sporadic at best. I've told my friends and family that I get God's attention when I pray because he doesn't consistently hear from me. When I'm communing with God, I pray for my loved ones but feel guilty about praying for anything that might benefit me. I give prayers of thanks for the excellent health of the people I love and pray for those suffering. I even pray for people I don't know and for the protection of animals. Our prayers are heard, but we don't always get what we want. As a famous Rolling Stone song goes—"You don't always get what you want, but if you try sometimes, you might get what you need."

I'm far from a model of perfect behavior; instead, I'm a deeply flawed individual trying to navigate this world by treating others with respect and love. I often need to improve in responding to people, especially those I don't agree with or dislike. I sometimes forget that we all have specific paths and struggle to get through this life in the best way possible. All great spiritual leaders, including Jesus, have taught us—"We are One. Love one another."  

      My childhood church, The First Baptist Church of Phillips, is on the left (First Methodist on the right). The town and churches no longer exist, as the houses were removed 30 years ago after the merger of Conoco/Phillips. The unincorporated town once had 3000 residents.