(c) Eva Marie Everson
The Path of Memory
In a previous life—in other words, before I became a writer—I worked as a nurse. During part of that season, I thoroughly enjoyed my time as a charge nurse in a geriatric facility. I have memories from more than forty years ago that still make me smile. Some make me laugh out loud.
But one of the most crushing things I witnessed while caring for my patients was not their deaths, but the wrestling that took place within those who had dementia or any disease that led to loss of memory. Initially, they struggled to remember some small thing—whatever they wanted to tell me about—whatever story they wanted to share, which was right on the tip of their tongue. Or, as they would say, pointing to the center of their forehead, “right here.”
Eventually, the memories faded to the point of being erased, and these sweet men and women were left with nothing—no memories of their children or grandchildren, their spouses or their parents or their siblings. There were no recollections of playing, of loving, of living. No memories of wedding day jitters or moments of teenage angst or that awful pre-teen time when bodies change faster than the brain. There are no special gems from their childhood. In the end, they were left with nothing. No stories to share, to laugh or cry over. Literally no way to connect to another human being.
Memories make up the “who” and “what” and “where” and sometimes the “how” of us. When we meet new people and tell them about ourselves, we draw from our memories. The memories bind us and teach us and shape us to be who we are. They also help get us to where we are going or to be who we will become.
Memories help us sort through the garbage of life. The more we think about a certain time and place, the more certain we are why we liked it or disliked it terribly. I remember the first time I watched a horror film. I was about ten years old. The theater had a two-for-one matinee that Saturday; the first film was an adventure, but the second was so frightening, I left the theater with the world spinning around me. My mother, who picked me up at the appropriate time, caught me as I fainted.
I can tell you explicitly why I don’t like horror films, and the reason goes back to that Saturday afternoon. But I can also tell you why I loved that theater so much—the pattern of the carpet in the lobby, the smell of popcorn, the cushy seats, and the expanse of the screen. The cool air in summer, the warmth in winter. The escape from reality, even though reality wasn’t so bad. But, oh! The stories played out for me—surely just for me—on the big screen. All this, I remember.
We learn from our memories. They teach us. Mold us and, sometimes, remold us.
A friend of mine told me about a friend of hers who once a year goes on a week-long vacation with her journals from the previous year. Over the course of those days, she reads them, drawing wisdom from their pages.
Recording our memories—our thoughts, our actions, our emotions—helps us process our days. But don’t mistake writing in a childhood diary as being the same as what we now call journaling. Journaling is so much more than Today I went to school. I came home. I did my homework and then I called Carla.[i] These are the scribblings of a schoolgirl or boy. Journaling goes deeper. And like those stolen moments of silence, journaling requires us to stop. To think. To process.
Most writers have no issue with this. I rarely meet another writer who doesn’t journal. But this is not limited to professional writers or authors. People from all professions and from every port of life are quick to write about their days. Just meander down a few aisles at your local bookstore or office supply shop and you’ll find scads of decorative journals and more-than-you-can-count pens for rambling between their lines.
The point now is to understand fully why we feel we must record our thoughts and actions—our days and the moments within them—by spilling ink onto paper.
But doing this is a good thing. A very good thing.
The Path of Questioning
“How are you?”
This is a common enough inquiry. If we are out and about in the world even a little, we hear it, or something like it, at least several times a week. If the question comes from a good friend or close family member, we might be completely honest. “I didn’t sleep so well last night,” we may say. Or “My headaches have come back. I’m seeing the doctor again as soon as I can make an appointment.” Or (on the positive side), “I couldn’t be any better. My daughter made it into the college we’ve been praying for, my job is going well, and my husband and I are still crazy in love after all these years.”
But the typical answer is a simple, “I’m fine. You?” when the truth is anything but. The world is caving in around us. We hardly have the stamina to take the next breath. We’re not sure how we’re going to pay the bills this month … Yet, we answer, “I’m fine.”
But when God asks us any question, we cannot lie. Sure, we can attempt to lie, but it won’t work. The longer we sit silently before God, the more we will open our memories to Him. And when we turn His questions found in Scripture toward ourselves, we must be honest. Lie or fib or skip around the truth with anyone else if you want to, but you can never lie to God.
When teachers ask their students questions, it is to ascertain the level of understanding the student has about the subject. When best friends ask each other questions, it is to deepen an already deep relationship. “Few know me and love me like you,” we say, often because a friend knows what to ask and when to ask it. When parents ask questions of their children, it is to discover the truth (“Who broke the antique vase that Aunt Sally gave me last year for Christmas?”), to connect their day to their children (“How did you do on your math test today?”), or to help form the parent-to-friendship bond that comes when our offspring grow up and leave the nest.
With God, questions are much the same. He asks, but often we are too quick to answer. God’s questions should be pondered. Turn it over, turn it over,as Miriam said.
The Path of Prayer
Years ago, as I perused the bookstore at a writers conference, I came across a small but thick hardback book titled Magnificent Prayer. The author, Nick Harrison, was not only on faculty, he’s my friend, so I picked up the volume and thumbed through the 365 entries focused on prayer.
Prayer is truly, wonderfully, amazingly magnificent, Nick wrote in his introduction. Prayer is an invitation to us from God Himself, asking us to please communicate with Him.[ii]
After purchasing the book, I underlined these words. And over the years of reading this book repeatedly (some of the pages are threatening to separate from the binding), I’ve carefully slid the point of a pen or pencil under the words that resonate within me. In these subsequent years, each time I see Nick, I mention to him just how much his work means to me—because it is oh, so true.
Prayer. Have you ever wondered how many books, articles, sermons, songs, and poems in the history of religion have been dedicated to this one subject? I have a feeling the number is unending. What is it about prayer that draws us to write—and read—about it so much?
My guess is we are so mystified by it, we seek to understand it and, thinking we understand it, we desire to comprehend it all the more. How is it, we ask ourselves, that the God of the universe, the Creator of all we see and don’t see, the One whose breath moves in and out of our lungs, desires to talk with us? Especially after the way some of us behave from time to time.
Then, new questions arise: Is prayer something we do or a way in which we live? Is recited prayer heard as quickly as prayer from the heart? Are one-sentence prayers as powerful as those that take hours?
With so many questions about prayer—questions I have asked over the years—is it any wonder that the notion of prayer confuses us? Is it any wonder we fill our shelves with books on the subject and as soon as another book is released purchase it as well to stand alongside?
But hear me on this: reading about prayer is not praying. Talking about prayer is not praying. Singing about prayer is not praying. Praying is praying. And I believe it is individual and personal. The way you pray may not be the way I pray. Some whisper. Some shout. Some pray without speaking. Some sing their prayers. In any form, only prayer is prayer—spoken, whispered, silent, sung.
But I also believe in the importance of finding that quiet place and spending real time with God, because—as Nick wrote—prayer is truly, wonderfully, amazingly magnificent.
And, as he wrote, it is an invitation. God is asking you to talk to Him. Not bark out your wish list. Talk to Him. Part of talking is listening. For me, when I am journaling my prayers, I feel myself slowing down. Even as my pen scratches words across the paper, I hear God speak to my spirit—once again, that precious “deep calling to deep.” One day when those I leave behind read them, they will notice that when I wrote within the Path of Prayer, I often stopped mid-thought … because God and I had entered into such a conversation, it was only for the two of us.
In the life of the believer, prayer cannot be avoided. It cannot be put on hold or saved for a better time. Listen to what John wrote—these, the words of Jesus: “Anyone who loves me will obey my teaching. My Father will love them, and we will come to them and make our home with them” (John 14:23 emphasis mine). If we have asked Jesus into our hearts and our lives and if we love Him, the Father and the Son by the power of the Holy Spirit will make their home with us.
How many of us live with other human beings we never speak to? I can’t think of anyone. Even those who have taken a vow of silence occasionally communicate. Our living with God and God living with us demands communication—both talking and listening.
In one word: prayer.
As you journal the labyrinth, as silence embraces you and you it, after you write about your life and the deepest thoughts in your heart, and after you answer the questions God has for you, thenspend time either writing and/or speaking your prayers to Him. In time you may find, as I did, that your prayer actually began the moment you stepped onto the path of silence, steps and steps and steps before you began the Path of Prayer. You will also discover this final path continues long after you step into the center and then out of the labyrinth.
Long after you put down your pen and close your journal.
***
Any sort of prayer is built around the premise that we are in conversation with the God of the universe—the Center of all things, as Thomas Merton once wrote. And if that is not marvelous and wondrous and mystical, then nothing anywhere is marvelous and wondrous and mystical …At some point, we have to move from talking about prayer to saying our prayers.[iii] ~~Robert Benson
[i] Taken from my 1969 diary
[ii] Harrison, Nick, Magnificent Prayer (Grand Rapids, MI: Zondervan), 12.
[iii] Benson, Robert, In Constant Prayer (Nashville, TN: Thomas Nelson), 79, 81.
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