Prayers Before Prayers

SR. MARY GRACE Llorca is not a person who will be respectful, shy, or shamed because she is concerned with what the other person will think or feel. She is direct and does not mince words to please. She says what’s on her mind because it’s what’s in her heart. I was honest when I told her that her candor is refreshing. She took it with a genuine smile as a matter of fact. This was in August 2018, when I first met her at the National Center of the Association of Mary Queen of all Hearts (AMQAH) in Madriñan. I will hear her repeat my remark at the recollection the next day in the same venue where, as guest speaker, she delivered her Recollection talk, “I Pray Before I Pray.”

I revisited the article I wrote about her in light of what has been going on with my life. I still lead a prayerful life but recent events tended to snatch my focus away from it; I realize that going back to what inspired me in the past is effective in rekindling the spark. I felt the need to meditate on little things about my insignificant life in order to keep track of my gratefulness to God before it, too, gets snatched away by the dark. It’s when I pray to get closer to God that the devil creeps up between us. This prayer before another prays to keep the devil away forever.

First off, my friend/physician/our family doctor has not stopped worrying over the neuropathy of my feet. She has successfully disciplined my diabetes; but DoloNeurobion needed Pregabalin to work. Her Secretary has joined her to rid me of my health adversaries. Meanwhile, anonymous PREX friends (represented by my surrogate Mom and Dad) contribute their monthly support of my meds. Needless to say, these material reliefs are accompanied by their prayers for my healing, recovery, and wellness. I’ve long run out of words to express my thanksgiving to them and so, found an outlet in the rare instances that I take a break from my reading and writing, watching singing competitions that showcase prodigious talents and the accolades accorded them by their adoring fans and competent judges. Those moments resonate highly with my musicality and I take pride in sharing them here. I use resonate to describe the lumps that shoot up my throat during their performances. The lumps are the closest I could get to the praise and thanksgiving that permeate when collective concern overwhelms me.

Musa Motha’s incredible dance moves on America’s Got Talent (where, towards the end of his act, he cast aside his dancing/walking stick and managed with only his good, right leg) ended with the credits “IT’S IMPOSSIBLE” disappearing and reappearing later into “I M POSSIBLE.” I need nothing further to illustrate his one-legged, mind-blowing act; thankfully, the three judges took turns in heaping accolades upon him, with Simon giving him “an extra little hand” – the golden buzzer. Musa’s insane choreography puts my recurring feeling of inadequacy to irreparable embarrassment.

He gives me courage to cast my worries over my feet neuropathy that has been with me for more than a year now. Even when my the second digit of my left foot fell out and left a wound that has not healed, although the right counterpart fell out as well but a new growth replaced it in a week’s time. I counted that instead. And, as I thanked and appreciated the concern of my other doctor-friend from Jose Reyes Memorial Hospital, vowed to really couple my prayer with treating my wound with serious care.

Next to Musa is a remarkable gifted musician, Kodi Lee, a 26-year-old blind, autistic savant, whose composition “Change,” defied all stereotypes and spellbound the judges and his coach Simon most of all. His inestimable, understandable feat was for his Mom, who stood by his side, from auditions to actual competitions, knowing too well that her wonder man-child would require her full-time attention and company. Too bad for Simon, however, Howie was so smitten by Kodi’s talent he pressed the golden buzzer and stole Kodi from Simon’s Dream Team. I inwardly jumped for joy with him, remembering my crossed left eye returning to normal. The wonder emerging right smack on my face! With me wondering how my joy compared to his sightless jumping-up-and-down delight.

Ghetto Kids, a group of children dancing to the original composition of one of them, literally took away the breaths of the judges. They were in sync with the lively, upbeat melody of their dance music it was futile not to swoon over them. I recalled the kids I abandoned and took for granted in my younger years. I make up for it in the gentle treatment I accord Reese, a delightful child/fellow choir member in my 4:30 Sunday service. Whose entire family makes up the rest of the minstrels.

And then came Aidan Bryant, a lithe aerial acrobat who stunned the judges and, because Mel B was literally speechless, cut short Simon’s lengthy monologue by pressing the golden buzzer and stealing Aidan from Heidi. I wish I could golden buzz Dawn whenever she belts out Lani Misalucha’s “Bukas na lang Kita Mamahalin” in the rare instances of our community get-togethers; the recent Christmas Fellowship and the upcoming Post-Valentine Serenata.

What am I driving at? The otherwise ordinary events in my life are highlighted by the extraordinariness of those events which tugged at my heartstrings for the sincerity between the performers and their appraisers. The latter not content with heaping praise on the former’s skills and talents and so could not help lowering their hand on the contraption that signals the over-the-topness of the performance they collectively witnessed, to the extent of stealing the dream from the team’s erstwhile coach. Which, of course, the Creator of both judged and judges would never exercise. I dare act as mediator between admired and admirer by applauding them both, like a gift that we share because, without the giver, it becomes bare. How humble, therefore, of the judges to attempt to hide their fangirling mode (the golden buzzer speaks volumes of this attitude) by involving the clapping, screaming, ovation-standing audience as their crime’s fait accompli.

Last Monday night, I visited my older brother in Bacood, Sta. Mesa. He is 83, has cancer, and is now a bag of bones. His daughter, will accompany him to a final check-up that will determine what kind and stage the cancer is. According to her research, it could be of the throat, manifested by a lump that has started to grow and cause him pain. The last time we talked online, he was irritable and complained of difficulty in speaking. He was agreeable that night and allowed her and me to talk without being bothered (aside from a blurring vision, his hearing was impaired. My talk with my niece was an eye- and ear-opener. She relayed to me the responsibilities heaped on her 30-year-old shoulders (she’s the youngest of 3 other, male siblings). From the hospitalization of her late Mom, my Ate (which was their collective denial period), and her inevitable passing, to a brother’s’ stroke and confinement in their house-turned-into-a-sickroom, their Dad’s downward spiral caused by the stress and, not very long ago, his shriveling into a deathly specter that he is now. I got an urgent message from her youngest brother to visit their Dad; he said he has grown weak and he did not need to elaborate, so I decided I couldn’t wait. His daughter, matter-of-factly, rendered a narrative like she was reading out loud an article for her advertising firm; I was in awe of her fortitude. Her resilience frustrated the dam that was starting to build in my chest. Instead, I felt sorry I knew very little of what she had gone through. I hugged her before I left.

Because I did not remember to say I love her during the visit, I told her I do in our messenger chat afterwards. She said it meant a lot that I dropped by. I will apologize to my brother the next time I see him and tell him what I told his daughter, but failed to do him. Then I stormed Jesus, Mary, and Joseph to intercede for him, and be it done by God’s will.

Because, having said all these, without Sr. Mary Grace’s provision, my prayer will never arrive at completion.

Amen.