three prayers

My old church used to sing the Doxology before meals at potlucks and Bible camps:

Praise God, from Whom all blessings flow;
Praise Him, all creatures here below;
Praise Him above, ye heavenly host;
Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.

Today, God blessed us, and the Doxology immediately stormed my mind.

The rhythm and melody and habit of the Doxology had replaced any deeper meaning with visions of pig roasts, but when I revisited it today, I rediscovered a wonderful poem, a verse in a larger hymn, part of yet a greater Psalm.

Our family had another prayer we were forced to say before meals:

Come, Lord Jesus;
Be our guest;
May these gifts to us be blessed;
In Jesus name,
Amen.

When it was our respective turns, my brother and I would speed through the prayer and blur the last two stanzas to create something that sounded like, “Engeeezusnameamen.” You could hardly blink. It was over. Our faces were stuffed.

I guess it was fitting, since we were never really grateful for our food anyways.

It was always on the table. My father once traveled to India on a mission trip for a month, and I remember him sending faxes back home and talking to him on the phone about how someone killed a rattlesnake or cobra in their motel kitchen. I think he has video of it somewhere. Snakes were exciting. Hearing him talk about how he was going to ship us to India for our ungratefulness wasn’t.

He once fasted for 40 days, just like Jesus.

And he never complained. He never does. We didn’t understand why Dad was only drinking soup and getting skinny. I remember the first time he ate again; watching him like a hawk as he ate barely a morsel, getting sick shortly after digesting solid food again. I recently heard or read about how the angels ministered to Jesus in the desert, and I’m sure angels ministered to my Dad in the same way.

As children, before we would go to sleep, my Grandmother would pray with us:

As I lay me down to sleep;
I pray the Lord my soul to keep;
If I die before I wake;
I pray the Lord my soul to take;

I used to say this prayer just in case I croaked during the night.

I wondered what would happened if I forgot to say it, if I’d miss out on Heaven. Sometimes, while riding on family road trips late at night listening to oldies or Dad’s classical music, I worried if we were in a sudden accident, if I’d be able to squeak out enough “I’m sorry for my sins” to God in time to slip safely past St. Pete.

These prayers, representing blessings, food, rest and salvation, were often confusing as a child, yet a childlike faith is exactly what Jesus calls us toward. It is good to reflect, to find the meaning in what was once meaningless.