While seeking the unknowable balance between petition and gratitude
By George Valadie
Fourteen minutes, no more. Always the same. If it varies at all, it’s never more than 60 seconds either way.
That’s all it takes to get from our house to Sunday Mass.
What’s your drive like? When our girls were little, the ride was much different.
“Did everyone go to the bathroom before we left? Really? Well, then can we all at least go before we sit down? Let’s try anyway. And let’s all kneel up when we’re supposed to. If everyone behaves, maybe we could go to the 7-Eleven for a snack.”
They’ve been on their own for a while now, so we fill these Sunday-morning drives with a different sort of chitchat about the various stops we need to make afterward.
“After Mass, do you think we can stop by Walmart for a minute to pick up those groceries I ordered?
“Maybe Walgreens, too? Walmart didn’t have that deodorant you like.
“And we should go by the bank, too, so I can get that cash for the birthday cards.”
Today was no different—she was rattling off a similar list—though while she was, I realized I hadn’t been paying a bit of attention, lost instead in the midst of trying to compile my own mental list of things and people for which I wanted to be sure to pray when we got to the church.
A mom and a dad of two different friends had recently passed away. At one of those funerals, I was told of a former student recently diagnosed with stage 4. One relative has gone dark. One had a sudden medical issue. Another has us worried all the time.
I’m always praying for our schools and all the people in them. I have a weekly ask to win the Powerball on their behalf.
I’m hoping my upcoming retirement won’t be boring. I’d like to sell some more books. I’m hoping to produce an audio version without losing money.
One grandson will soon be trying to make a team while the other is just trying to make a friend.
It was beginning to feel like a lot.
As Mass began, I was lost in delivering all my requests—trying to word them just so—when the youth choir interrupted me with their rendition of the day’s responsorial psalm.
“The Lord is my shepherd, there is nothing I shall want.”
Are you kidding me?
I had to laugh. I’m guessing He was laughing, too. But I felt compelled to argue a little. Respectfully, I mean. To at least make my point. I get what you’re saying but I beg to differ—there are all sorts of things I want. Kinda need. And I’ve barely gotten through the highlights of my list.
A second refrain, “ … there is nothing I shall want.”
OK, I hear you.
As Mass continued, I’d love to say I was praying along with the Eucharistic Prayer, but that’s just not true.
Instead, I was locked in an internal debate, arguing with myself about the things I take to God, the things I should take to God, and what exactly should be the purpose and prayers of my Sunday liturgy.
If any of that time was to be spent in confession, the first thing I’d need to admit is spending way too much time on Facebook. Guilty as charged.
But now and again I find the occasional pearl of wisdom I feel compelled to share. I’d probably find a lot more if I traded some of that time perusing Scripture.
But the one I found that often echoes through my mind—and was for sure on this particular Sunday—was a quote that asked:
“What if you woke up tomorrow with only those things for which you thanked God today?”
Here I was in His presence asking. Probably pleading a little. But I hadn’t offered a single word of gratitude. Not one.
Ungrateful? Not really. Thoughtless? More like it.
So, I reversed field and began to list the many gifts I had been given. Family, friends, grandchildren. Opportunities. Warm house. Full refrigerator. Running car. A job to retire from.
Admittedly, it was a hastily fashioned list. With not nearly as much forethought as my requests. But grateful all the same.
And then it was time for Communion. Back kneeling in my pew, I suddenly recalled the words of St. Teresa of Avila, who had once offered this thought:
“His Majesty is not accustomed to paying poorly for His lodging if the hospitality is good.”
She had been speaking of receiving Communion, suggesting that when a person “hosts” Jesus in their soul, “His presence is a gift that will be richly reciprocated by God in response to a faithful hospitality.”
In other words, when you get back to your pew, that’s a pretty good time to ask for God’s favor as long as you are the sort of host where He’d like to take up residence.
I try to be. So, asking is OK, right? Maybe not too much? But don’t forget all you do have? Maybe more of the latter and less of the former?
All in all, this particular Sunday Mass had been stressful. Lots of praying, not much praising. And absolutely no answers.
Often in my life I am reminded I am neither theologian nor Scripture scholar. Like many of you, I’m just trying to get to heaven to be with family and friends and the Creator in whom I so firmly believe. “A flawed mortal fumbling toward enlightenment.”
He made us, thus I’m guessing He understands our human nature. But since we were made in His image, and must have it in there somewhere, He might prefer we exude a little more of Him and less of us.
He wouldn’t be wrong.
In this season of giving thanks, may we find a moment to compile that list of blessings we need to mention way more than we probably do.
Dear God—You’re not generous, you are generosity. You’re not loving, you are love. May we be a little bit more of both. Amen.
George Valadie is a parishioner at St. Stephen Church in Chattanooga and author of the book “We Lost Our Fifth Fork … and other moments when we need some perspective.”