Flooding and My Little Secret

I mentioned the terrible floods here in Central Texas in last week’s post. The flooding happened in the middle of the night. Lots of fast rising water that killed people, swept away houses, and flooded many more homes, displacing hundreds, or maybe thousands, of people who lived near the rivers.

Floods are a good time for prayers, but I’m one of those guys for whom prayers don’t come easily. I will go along with everyone else as we orally read the prayers printed in the bulletin during church services. I reluctantly take my turn saying grace at family dinners, stumbling through a list of blessings. Mama taught us to say bedtime prayers when we were little kids, and I still try to remember to offer silent prayers in the five seconds before I start snoring after my head hits the pillow. But not even Nita lying next to me knows when, or if, I pray.

All that’s to assure you I’ve never done this before:

Sit in the middle of a large crowded room at the Flood Resource Center as a volunteer for the Salvation Army disaster relief team; Grasp both hands of a stranger sitting across the table, a stranger with whom I’ve completed paper work about their home being flooded; a person to whom I’ve passed along a couple of WalMart gift cards from the Salvation Army, so they can immediately acquire clothes, gas, groceries, or whatever.

Then, before that stranger leaves the table, and still holding their hands, independent of all the other conversations going on in the room, by myself, out loud, say a prayer. A prayer I make up as I go, based on what he/she has just told me, a prayer specifically for that stranger, said loud enough for him or her to hear me say their name. A prayer to thank God for bringing him/her safely through the flood, a prayer to ask God to give that person the strength to rebuild and carry on after being displaced by flood waters that ruined their home.

I’ve never even considered praying solo in public, until the Salvation Army staff lady sitting next to me modeling how to complete the flood assistance paperwork, did it. She asked permission, and then grasped the lady’s hands across the table, and said such a prayer. Oh, my. I didn’t show up to do that.

Fifteen minutes later, I handed over two gift cards to my first “client.” Suddenly, it was time to pray, or not. Crunch time. Would I follow the lead of my teacher? After all, I’m a manly man. I lift weights at the gym every week. I write war novels. I like beer. You want me to hold hands and pray out loud? Can’t I just give away gift cards?

Somehow, I swallowed my fear and embarrassment, and asked the lady across the table for her permission to offer a prayer for her. I mean, what’s the client going to say after she just received money from me? She agreed, and I did it. I prayed for her by name, and it felt right. Oh, my. In for a penny, in for a pound. I kept doing it, and honestly, I think every client felt as good about someone else, even a stranger, praying for them by name, as they did about receiving the gift cards. Not to mention, I felt really good, too.

In an hour I’m going back to volunteer again today. I’ll get back to writing about the Civil War trials of McBee, Levi, and Faith tonight or tomorrow.  

But today, I think, I hope, I will again wrap up each client’s session today with a hand-holding prayer. I hope I can do that. Writing this and thereby including you, my blog readers, helps, because when I punch the “send” key, you will know my secret, making me accountable to do what I wrote. Oh, my.

Again, I promise next week to get back to my original intent for this blog: Writing about my writing Civil War novels. But you’ve seen by now that I’m easily distracted.