Prayer and Works II

We had a great babysitter when the kids were small, a generous, mature young woman who, through high school and college, was so good and loved us so much that every year or two, she would encourage us to leave not just for an evening, but for a whole weekend, her gift to us.  The kids loved her, and she enjoyed getting out of her own house, one of eight kids there.  One such weekend Kathy and I drove across the Detroit River to Windsor, Ontario and took the train to Toronto. 

Neither of us had been on a train for years, and we thought it kind of exotic.  But in actuality, the rail beds were in such disrepair that instead of the train gliding through the little towns on the way, it had to slow down terribly, rocking and rolling over the uneven tracks, to avoid derailment.  On the way back, about a half mile from Windsor’s Walkerville Station, the train did actually come to a grinding halt off the rails, despite having slowed down to less than
ten miles per hour.  There we were, in this powerful steel conveyance, immobile as cars with a fraction of its power drove by on the parallel street, their occupants turning to gawk, and many of them pulling off to look at the spectacle.   

Big and powerful and useless, just like me when I was first retired.  Unused capacity, I thought again and again.  Children would go by on their way to school, a place to go, things to do.  I, having exhausted the first months of freedom from compulsion to go places and do things, felt like I was stuck in that train again.  The seats were comfortable, but I was going nowhere.  I felt useless.

The way they get trains back on the track is to lift them with a huge crane.  They line the wheels on the far side of the train with the far-side track, and lower it until the wheels are just above it.  Then they push the near-side rail, tie by tie, until it is under the near-side wheels.  They compress the rail bed under the ties and nail the rails to them securely, and let the train back onto the rails.

My first rail was resuming my work with the homeless.  While my months of effort t find some work had shown me that I was on the wrong end of the supply-demand curve to do meaningful work for the kind of pay I had made in Detroit, I knew that the homeless had use for those who could help, and could do it free.  I began spending Tuesday evenings at the shelter here, and was encouraged to find that my work made a difference.  Pretty soon the substance of the whole day was preparing for the work I would do that evening, and Tuesday became the day that anchored my week, that made time not an endless series of days but a pattern with meaning and substance, with anticipation and reflection.

My second rail was, as with the railroad crew, the one that took more time.  A couple of months ago, I saw a note in the parish newsletter about a men’s group starting on Tuesday mornings at 7, praying and discussing the next week’s Gospel.  For 35 years I had enjoyed that practice in Detroit, meeting in the dark mornings, lighting a candle and praying for our families, our work, our lives as men, whose wives somehow seemed to do this more naturally.  After a couple of weeks, I had my balance again.  I could feel the rightness of life that was centered on these Tuesdays. 

But these Tuesdays have shown me that prayer and works is more than just balance.  There is a synergy between them.  More on that tomorrow.