Though I've been a Catholic for five years I have a habit from my former evangelical life that I can't seem to shake. Whenever I don't know what to pray in my own words, I revert to singing hymns. It happens all the time.
I'm in the communion line. The Daily Mass Grandmas are lined up in front of me, devout and adorable as can be. I'd bet money each one of them is silently whispering some great old “before-you-go-up-to-communion” prayer, something they memorized in first grade and have never forgotten. As the line continues moving, my mind begins shouting out: “There He is! The King of Kings! He's waiting for me. Say something, Kris. SAY something!” That's when the hymn thing begins.
The classic hymns are there right when I need them most. After Communion, when my heart is oh-so-filled with thanks, I grope around for something to say. “Thank you Lord, for this wonderful gift…” Then words fail me. I don't have a lifetime of beautiful memorized prayers at my disposal like so many of my Catholic brothers and sisters. So the hymn takes over:
Now thank we all our God, With heart and hands and voices,
Who wondrous things hath done, In Whom the world rejoices;
Who, from our mother's arms, Hath blessed us on our way,
With countless gifts of love, And still is ours today.
All praise and thanks to God, The Father now be given,
The Son, and Him who reigns, With them in highest heaven;
The one eternal God, Whom earth and heaven adore;
For thus it was, is now, And shall be evermore.
I couldn't have said it better myself. Indeed, I could never have said it. I'm not a poet in a pinch. Who is? Lofty language isn't my thing. The hymn carries me where I couldn't go alone.
Or take Adoration. I wasn’t sure what to do, so I asked my Catholic friends for advice the first time I signed up for a Holy Hour. It was Lent, and I wanted to be sure to get it just right. First impressions are important. Presence of the King and all that.
“Just look at Jesus,” said one friend. “And let Him look at you.” And so I did, and I still do often, and if I feel like talking instead of just sitting and looking, the words that pop into my head are often hymn words. Like these:
Jesus, the very thought of Thee,
With sweetness fills my breast,
But sweeter far Thy face to see,
And in Thy presence rest.
I've learned to rest in His presence. I imagine him beckoning me with a twinkle in His eye. “Come closer,” He whispers. “I've been anxious to spend this time with you. Sit right here next to me and let's catch up.”
So when I know we're going to be together at Adoration, I often take the hymnal and start my time with some songs. Of course I don't make any noise if there are other people around. But I do find it hard not to tap my foot or at least bob my head a bit. It's automatic hymn behavior for us cradle-evangelicals-turned-RC. In my heart, where only Jesus can see and hear, the words and music of a good old friend become my prayer.
When I awake each morning I whisper, “Good morning, Lord. Let the words of my mouth and the meditations of my heart be acceptable in Thy sight.” It's from a Psalm. There are times when my prayer is simply, “Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on me, a sinner.” Sometimes all I can squeak out is, “Help!” or “Jesus I am so, so, so, SO sorry.” Sometimes I pray with tears. I pour out my heart to Jesus. It's something I've done all my life. But now that I'm Catholic I ask a lot of my friends to pour out their hearts on my behalf too. People like Mary, St. Joseph, St. Teresa of Avila, St. Francis de Sales. They do, and it helps — like a big group prayer hug.
Then there are the desperate times, when there are no words for what I feel or fear or need or want to say. That's when I depend upon the scripture promise that “the Spirit himself intercedes for us with sighs too deep for words.” It's when my prayers, memorized, extemporaneous, hymn-induced or otherwise, fail me. Then I'm at the mercy of a loving God who knows me better than I know myself. When I leave off praying because I am unable to go further, the Holy Spirit takes over on my behalf. I'm sure this is why He is called The Comforter.
This world is not my home; I'm just passing through. Heaven is my real home, and I hope with every fiber of my being to go there someday. Until I get there I will spend these days on earth doing my childish best to please my Heavenly Father. As always, an old hymn says it best.
O measureless Might! Ineffable Love!
While angels delight to hymn Thee above,
Thy humbler creation, though feeble their lays,
With true adoration shall sing to Thy praise.
