It’s hard to have a sick baby. I made the comment I’ve quoted below earlier today on a post at Asymmetrical Information, in which Megan was wondering why she, an agnostic, found herself praying for her sick dog:
I’ve been praying a lot this week.
I don’t know whether God is more likely to help me out because I’m praying, or not.
I grit my teeth and find that it’s very, very, very hard to pray "Not my will, but Yours, be done." And to pray, "Whatever happens, I will be thankful that You gave her to me."
Meanwhile I turn to the baby herself and ask her, please, to keep the medicine down, and to stay with me. Since she’s not quite six months old, I suppose this is an irrational thing to do. But it’s the truest urge in my heart to ask her this.
That "Not my will, but Yours" is a %#%&, isn’t it? I got a couple of reminders yesterday, divine dope-slaps you could say, no need to go into details, that that’s got to be my prayer.
And then along came something I’d forgotten until just now. Today is Candlemas, a.k.a. the feast of the Presentation. Today’s Gospel includes this:
The child’s father and mother were amazed at what was said about him;
and Simeon blessed them and said to Mary his mother,
“Behold, this child is destined
for the fall and rise of many in Israel,
and to be a sign that will be contradicted
(and you yourself a sword will pierce)
so that the thoughts of many hearts may be revealed.”
This is a bit of the strength that I need today, this story of offering a Child, of a prophecy that is sorrowful and redemptive at the same time, of a mother whose life was the prayer Thy will be done. If I could leave the house, I’d bring a candle to Mass to be blessed today, but instead we’ll just cuddle on the couch.
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