A Prayer in Sad Times
In the beginning, he thinks, things made sense. Intuition and empathy seemed to let him read minds. He was joyfully non-competitive, non-confrontational, spontaneous. Procrastination was an art form. Mañana ever present. The inchoate world spilled from infinity to eternity and back again. Everything was possible. Every option open. Evil, an illusion, a misunderstanding. Happiness just was.
Then that illusion took form. And invaded, entering through every pore. Inherent evil, ugly but persistent and pervasive, a metastasizing cancer, rearing its wrinkled head, insidiously invading realms of purity, tranquility and happiness, infecting them with sorrow and despair. A buffeting hurricane storming the innocent undefended meadows of faith.
He lives on memories of better times. Or perhaps just perceptions of better times. He dreams of spreading his wings and flying free again. He hopes though in despair he does not quite believe. He examines himself minutely, unremittingly, seeking to find impurities in his past that explain his present.
Impurities are there. He is not a synthetic simulacrum. His defects are human, normal. His mistakes are human, not reflective. Not the cause of the spreading plague. At worst, they are among its symptoms. He seeks to improve, to learn from his mistakes but takes little comfort in his revelations. His progeny is at risk and he must find the answers.
He dares hope for the existence of divinity and divine providence. For paternal or maternal intervention. “Lift this burden from me if you would. Protect me and mine. Defend us from our enemies and those who would do us ill, knowingly, or, casually in their indifference.” He seeks an ultimate light but it seems to be asleep. Perhaps tomorrow will shine bright and new and the horrid dream will end.
Most real prayers are sad.
 © Guillermo Calvo Mahé. Ocala Florida September 16, 2004. All rights reserved.