I usually celebrate the six o’clock Mass every evening and the congregation consists mainly of seniors, people coming in from work or youngsters on their way to or from some other appointment. It’s the same people sitting in the same places and as I look at their tired faces I wonder what goes on within their souls and what it is that draws them to come to pray.
Over the years I gradually notice some who come in a little early. They pick their places, sometimes kneeling, sometimes sitting, but mostly they keep their eyes closed in quiet prayer. The time they spend in the shrine is their quiet time, it is very personal. But I did get a peek.
Once as I dashed from the sacristy to my quarters I was intercepted by someone who wanted to have 'a word.' After preliminary greetings were exchanged and introductions made I found that the face was familiar and the story rather sad. This middle-aged mother had three teenage children. The eldest, a son was going through a particularly rebellious phase at the time, and she was worried about his influence on the others. As a regular housewife she struggled to keep the home peaceful. Her husband was abroad on some assignment and he came home every couple of months. In his absence she was both mother and father, and from the lines on her face and the dark rings around her eyes I could see that it was a feat. She said that sometimes she had to wait up for her teenage son who got home late and that trying to control her temper and suppress her anxiety was not always easy.
When I told her that I noticed her regularly at Mass, she smiled awkwardly and said, ‘Ah yes – prayer is a big help’ – ‘You’re great, how do you manage it?’ I asked. She looked at me in an embarrassed kind of way and shook her head. ‘I don’t see it that way at all. I’m not great. I need prayer.’
Then she told me how she was frequently at a loss to know how to handle her rebellious son. She easily lost her temper with him, she said, even though she knew that it wasn’t going to help. The tension only spread to the others and a row followed leaving everyone miserable. She admitted that sometimes she had shown little understanding of their shortcomings, or concern for their problems. ‘I am most hurt when they start avoiding me, and I fear that I am growing hard,’ she went on, her eyes almost welling up. ‘So now you know why I need this time of prayer in the evening. I need God to help me during the day to be less tense and more wise. And I think he does. I’m learning slowly.’ Then she glanced at her watch, apologized and dashed off.
We pray, not because we are perfect, but because like this concerned mother, we need God’s help in our daily struggles. Prayer is a way of bringing our lives to God and God into the messy heart of our lives. She needed prayer because she needed God; so do we all.
 

                                                                                                                                                                                                                Fr. Ian Doulton sdb