Praying Over My Head

I love baseball. I played the game from the age of seven or eight until I turned fortyfive a few years ago -- when I finally faced up to the truth that I would never make it to the bigs. :-) Actually, I had faced up to THAT truth years before. But at about age 45, the truth faced was that continuing to play was getting both progressively futile and embarrassing and progressively painful!! I knew my days were numbered when I was forty, still playing in summer league softball, and I made a dash from first to third on a ball hit to left field -- a dash I'd always been able to make with ease; but now "dash" had to be qualified, I discovered. I discovered that fact when I was still twenty feet from third base and saw that the third baseman already had the ball! Where had my lightning speed gone? Oh -- it had stayed in the 80s, but this was the 90s. Anyway, my only hope was to attempt a diving, headfirst slide. Putting my life on the line, I went for it. As I dove for the bag, I felt something in my left shoulder pop. But not to worry, I also felt my feet fly up over my head, and one foot hit the third baseman's glove and knocked the ball loose, so I was safe at third. I stood up -- my left shoulder felt a little weird, but didn't seem hurt. I played the rest of the game and all my body parts seemed to function ok.

But, we had a double-header that night, with an hour off between games. When I started to warm up for the next game, I realized that I couldn't get my upper left arm to move over the level of my shoulder. I had torn my rotator cuff (I found out weeks later when I finally went to the doctor). It took two years to heal fully.

Now, I'm not claiming that Curt Shilling took a page out of my book with his "bloody sock" stunt, but I played that second game that night and did pretty well. Thankfully I didn't have to catch any balls over the level of my shoulder -- all grounders (I played shortstop). The adrenalin got me through, and the pain only set in later. (Advil is my BFF!)

Everyone does things at some times that we look back on and wonder how we did it. I was never a great athlete, but every now and then I could make a play that might fool someone into thinking I was (if they didn't watch too long and see me boot the next four ground balls or something). Any time that happened, I was really "playing over my head." Sorta like the Milwaukee Brewers for the first half of this season. (Watch them fade in July! Go Cubs!)

I'm lousy at prayer. My prayers are usually just long complaints to God about my pet peeves and unfulfilled selfish desires. I wish I could do better -- and on occasion, by God's grace I have -- but most of the time I feel like God ought to tee me up and whack me down the fairway -- or into the water bunker (would that be an allusion to baptism? Hmmm.).

When I see this tendency in my prayers -- when I make an effort to do better -- I frequently turn to the prayers of people who are better than me. Yes, I know, that's a long list. But it makes the research easier.

Anyway, here's one that I have bookmarked on my browser so that I can click to it when the world and my own selfishness threaten to keep me from sleeping. It's an ancient prayer called the Aidan Compline. You can see the prayer with a short history and instructions by clicking here. But, here are the words. See if these don't help you "pray over your head." They are particularly moving when used (as originally intended) in a group with various leaders (see the instructions for that).

* O Christ, Son of the living God,
may Your holy angels guard our sleep,
may they watch over us as we rest
and hover around our beds.

* Let them reveal to us in our dreams
visions of Your glorious truth,
O High Prince of the universe,
O High Priest of the mysteries.

* May no dreams disturb our rest
and no nightmares darken our dreams.
May no fears or worries delay
our willing, prompt repose.

* May the virtue of our daily work
hallow our nightly prayers.
May our sleep be deep and soft
so our work be fresh and hard.

I will lie down and sleep in peace
for You alone, Lord, make me dwell in safety.

My dear ones, O God, bless Thou and keep,
in every place where they are.

* Into Your hands I commit my spirit;
I give it to You with all the love of my heart.

* How precious to me are Your thoughts, O God!
How vast is the sum of them!
Were I to count them,
they would outnumber the grains of sand.
When I awake, I am still with You.

I make the cross of Christ upon my breast,
+ over the tablet of my hard heart,
and I beseech the Living God of the universe -
may the Light of Lights come
to my dark heart from Thy place;
may the Spirit's wisdom come to my heart's tablet
from my Saviour.

* Christ without sin, Christ of wounds,
I am placing my soul and my body
under Thy guarding this night,
Christ of the poor, Christ of tears.
Thy cross be my shielding this night,
O Thou Son of tears, of the wounds, of the piercing.

I am going now into the sleep:
O be it in Thy dear arm's keep,
O God of grace, that I shall awake.

* My Christ! my Christ!
my shield, my encircler,
each day, each night,
each light, each dark.

* My Christ! my Christ!
my shield, my encircler,
each day, each night,
each light, each dark.
Be near me, uphold me,
my treasure, my triumph.

Circle me, Lord,
keep protection near
and danger afar.

* Circle me, Lord,
keep light near
and darkness afar.

* Circle me, Lord,
keep peace within;
keep evil out.

The peace of all peace
be mine this night
+ in the name of the Father,
and of the Son,
and of the Holy Spirit.
Amen.

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The Patriot's Dream by Gordon Lightfoot

Granted -- Gordon Lightfoot is a Canadian. We probably shouldn't hold that against him. But these lyrics, from his 1972 album Don Quixote, may speak powerfully to Americans (with apologies to Canadians, who for some strange reason like to insist that THEY are Americans, too). I've wondered sometimes why more US citizens weren't protesting the war in Iraq, and why the anti-war movement took so long to gain momentum. Perhaps it's because we didn't have good songs to move us like we did in the 1960s and 1970s during the Viet Nam war. Maybe we need some good new anti-war songs. In the meantime, try this one out. You can listen to it on Ruckus here (http://www.ruckus.com/ruckus/music/track.do?trackId=482768). But, here's the lyrics.

The songs of the wars are as old as the hills.
They cling like the rust on the cold steel that kills.
They tell of the boys who went down to the tracks
In a patriotic manner with the cold steel on their backs.

The patriot's dream is as old as the sky.
It lives in the lust of a cold calloused lie.
Let's drink to the men who got caught by the chill
Of the patriotic fever and the cold steel that kills.

The train pulled away on that glorious night.
The drummer got drunk and the bugler got tight
While the boys in the back sang a song of good cheer
While riding off to glory in the spring of their years.

The patriot's dream still lives on today.
It makes mothers weep and it makes lovers pray.
Let's drink to the men who got caught by the chill
Of the patriotic fever and the cold steel that kills.

Well there was a sad, sad lady
Weeping all night long.
She received a sad, sad message
From a voice on the telephone.
Her children were all sleeping
As she waited out the dawn.
How could she tell those children
That their father was shot down.
So she took them to her side that day
And she told them one by one,
Your father was a good man ten thousand miles from home.
He tried to do his duty and it took him straight to hell.
He might be in some prison, I hope he's treated well.

Well there was a young girl watching in the early afternoon
When she heard the name of someone who said he'd be home soon.
She wondered how they got him, but the papers did not tell.
There would be no sweet reunion, there would be no wedding bells.
So she took herself into her room and she turned the bed sheets down,
And she cried into the silken folds of her new wedding gown.
He tried to do his duty; it took him straight to hell.
He might be in some prison, I hope he's treated well.

Well there was an old man sitting in his mansion on the hill.
And he thought of his good fortune and the time he'd yet to kill.
He called to his wife one day, "Come sit with me awhile."
Turning toward the sunset, he smiled a wicked smile
"Well I'd like to say I'm sorry for the sinful deeds I've done,
But let me first remind you, I'm a patriotic son."
They tried to do their duty and it took 'em straight to hell.
They might be in some prison, I hope they're treated well

The songs of the wars are as old as the hills,
They cling like the rust on the cold steel that kills.
They tell of the boys who went down to the tracks
In a patriotic manner with the cold steel on their backs.

The train pulled away on that glorious night,
The drummer got drunk and the bugler got tight
While the boys in the back sang a song of good cheer
While riding off to glory in the spring of their years.

The patriot's dream still lives on today
It makes mothers weep and it makes lovers pray.
Let's drink to the men who got caught by the chill
Of the patriotic fever and the cold steel that kills.

I heard an NPR piece a couple of months ago about a new Neil Young album that was wholly a protest against the war in Iraq. I haven't yet heard it. Hope to soon.