When I was a child, I asked my mother if she believed in God. "God is Nature," she told me. She loved her flower garden, and our drives through the mountains of Appalachia. I asked my father why we didn't go to church. "You're welcome to go to church. Try them all," he said. He loved teaching, and the High Sierras.
As I got older, my interest in religion was fed by my desire for purpose. "Why do you go to church?" I asked my best friend in junior high school. "I go to meet girls," he said. It was the 1960's. Church was out. Sex and drugs were in.
Riding the tail of Sputnik, I had been tracked "math/science", which tinted my search for meaning with logic and the scientific method. By high school, with the Vietnam "conflict" raging, my inquiries included Vedanta (thank you Candace S.) and Buddhism (thank you Stan S.).
But it wasn't until I was 53 that I was introduced to the value of prayer. My son was headed to prison, again. And even though he was 26 years old, and responsible for his own choices, I felt responsible. I was his father.
As I struggled with letting go, a friend pointed out that I was suffering because I was taking responsibility for something I couldn't change (thank you Ken P.). No, he was not Buddhist. He had done a 12-step program. He shared with me the serenity prayer.
I started going to a local sweat lodge, where I learned about letting go of the things I can't control. It helped.
Today, I pray, not for things that I want, but specifically to remind me that there are things I cannot change. In this way, prayer is my acknowledgment that I must be humble in the big scheme of things. I do bite off more than I can chew, on occasion, just to see where the boundaries are. How can I know what I can change if I don't try? Wisdom is gained by making mistakes, no?
Note: This article was inspired by this cartoon by Trevor Spaulding in the September 23, 2024 issue of The New Yorker magazine, page 82:
