Today’s entry comes from my own personal history, from my very Catholic grandmother, who we called Mother Dear, during a plumbing problem while I was visiting her in North Little Rock, Arkansas, in 1980:
“Lord, I’m just a widow woman needin’ her toilet fixed, so come in to the pipes and lay your hands on this toilet and get it runnin’, amen.”
I snickered; she smacked my arm. (Both of my grandmothers communicated as much in smacks as through words). This was in my pre-Christian days, when snottiness too often ruled my day-to-day interactions, even with adults I revered. But her toilet made the successful swooshing sound she needed, and months later, after I had become a Christian, I called to apologize.
“That’s just fine, sweetheart,” she replied. “I ‘magine that prayer was as much for you as it was for my toilet.”
I love you, Mother Dear, and I’ll see you when it’s time!