Recently, I was performing at the Hudson Valley Folk Guild in Poughkeepsie, New York and noticed a gifted composer and classical guitarist seated in the audience. Initially planning to play two original songs, I lost my confidence. Briefly, I considered leaving my guitar in the case and not getting on stage.
“Next up, Kathy Mark….” Under the blinding stage lights, I began to carefully navigate the instrument and vocal cables that were on the floor and walked up to the microphone. I fed the instrument cable through my guitar strap and “plugged in.”
I suppose it’s a miracle that I’m performing on stage at all, that I have the freedom that comes from not being concerned with impressing anyone. On June 11, 2021, I suffered a farming accident, getting hit on the head and back by a falling hay bale. The magnitude of my injuries was not readily apparent. I didn’t know how bad my concussion was, and neither did anyone else. Unable to communicate clearly, my doctors couldn’t understand what I was saying, although I thought I made perfect sense. I did not slip into a coma, yet my body silenced its higher functions for months, pouring its strength into the work of healing. In that silence, I began—slowly—to glimpse the courage that healing itself would ask of me.
And yet, the most intriguing part of this recovery process, which is still very much ongoing, is not the physical healing. It is, rather, how Jesus, through it, has transformed my relationship with him and the way I pray. That’s what I want to share here.
The Meek and Humble Master Led Me Step by Step
After a few weeks in bed, I got the inspiration to take a daily walk on a paved trail near my home. With my higher functioning still shut down (which felt like I was experiencing everything for the first time, like a little child), I developed a ritual for what I called my “God Walks.” This was the first step. For the first half of my trek, I prayed for whoever, or whatever, came to mind, followed by the classic triplet of Our Father, Hail Mary and Glory Be for each petition. After turning around on the trail, I was silent and listened for God’s response. Others passed me as I shuffled along, since I stopped frequently to admire a squirrel, bird, pinecone, the tree bark, or even just a crack in the pavement. I began walking for 20 minutes round-trip and worked up to 3 hours. Inch by inch, step by step, mile by mile.
My prayer was becoming very simple.
As my mental faculties slowly began to show improvement, I determined to take up my regular prayer routine from before the accident. Still unaware of the extent of my traumatic brain injury, I was surprised when this just didn’t work. Though I had prayed the Liturgy of the Hours for years, I now struggled to get through a single psalm. My eyes would close after a couple of lines of the psalm, and if I forced myself to continue, they would burn. I had to set aside this familiar way of praying for the indefinite future.
I shared my frustration with a priest who told me that spending time with Jesus in front of the Tabernacle was enough. I didn’t have to say or do anything! The effort to get to church and spend time with Jesus would be my prayer.
Slowly, I realized that God was leading me to begin to pray in the spirit of Mary of Bethany, who sat at Jesus’ feet. Where once I had relied on myself to make gains in my spiritual life, I now had no choice but to simply remain with Jesus and enjoy the better part. When it became clear to me that I no longer had the capacity to read comfortably when praying, a friend suggested that I visualize myself handing Jesus my book of the Liturgy of the Hours and watch what he would do with my offering. In my inspired imagination, I watched as Jesus placed the book in his Heart and invited me to just be with him.
My prayer was becoming very silent and still.
It has been my experience that priests have a special place in their hearts for the sick, homebound, and those closest to death. Suffering from PTSD and stuttering after my brain injury, I struggled with confession, especially because I wanted to hide my injuries and appear “normal.” Every time that I approached the sacrament, however, I was unable to speak at all until I blurted out that I had a brain injury. Each priest I encountered in confession was eager to help. They were just happy that I showed up. This showed me Jesus’ Heart: a love that stoops low to enter the most fragile places of our lives and bring healing.
My prayer was becoming more vulnerable.
Throughout my life, God has always provided me with friends who have “good habits.” Because of my PTSD, going to Mass on Sunday at my large parish was almost impossible. So, in those first months, the only place where I felt safe was the Poor Clare Monastery Chapel where I had been a frequent visitor. It was about 30 minutes from my home, small, quiet, with few people present other than the nuns. They were very concerned about me and so glad to have me back. Eventually, I told my pastor where I had been attending Sunday Mass and why. He took me seriously and thought of ways to help me feel safer in my parish church. With his suggestions, I now feel comfortable sitting in a pew close to a stained-glass window just to the right of the altar, depicting Jesus raising Jairus’ daughter from the dead. When I sit by that window, I imagine that Jesus has raised me up after my accident. I “become” the girl in the stained-glass window with Jesus.
Eventually, I have now been able to return to attending weekday Mass at the Poor Clare Monastery. The morning Mass is immediately followed by mid-morning prayer, and visitors are allowed to pray with the nuns. The prayer involves praying the psalms aloud antiphonally. My doctor had encouraged me to read aloud each day to improve my reading and eye tracking. Alone, it was nearly impossible, but I noticed that in antiphonal prayer with the nuns, the rhythm of their voices carried me. I asked the abbess if I could join the community for Vespers on Friday evenings so I could practice my reading. Two years have passed since I began my weekly commitment to Vespers and an hour of Eucharistic adoration, followed by Compline. My reading has amazingly improved. One of the nuns said to me, “Thank you for coming. We need you and the world needs your prayers.”
My prayer was becoming more child-like.
The power of communal prayer is that, when we are weak, others are there to pray with us and for us. Consider the Church’s most important communal prayer: the Mass. The young parents sitting next to us may have used all of their energy getting their children to Mass and there is nothing left for prayer. We “take up the slack” and pray for them. If one cannot kneel anymore, he or she may stay seated, but focused for those parents. The parents who cannot focus are kneeling for the one who remains seated. I am unable to keep my eyes open during most of the Mass because of light sensitivity issues. Someone else has their eyes open for me. A person in a wheelchair may not be able to stand. I can stand for that person. For those who cannot hear, many parishes offer a ministry to interpret for the deaf. Someone else hears for them and translates the Word. During Mass we sit, stand, and kneel as one Body as much as human frailty will allow. The congregation prays and sings aloud in one voice. We move as one because we are one Body with Christ as the Head. No one is left behind; everyone is carried to Christ and Christ carries us to the Father.
My prayer was becoming warmer and more attuned to the beauty of those around me.
When I regained the use of my arms after my accident, I expected to be able to play the guitar as before. But when I tried to play, I couldn’t remember a single song. On top of that, my brain rebelled against reading sheet music, making me nauseous and dizzy. For weeks, I fumbled around, playing whatever chords or scales I could recall until finally one song came back to me: my instrumental arrangement of Elvis Presley’s “I Can’t Help Falling in Love with You.” I felt inspired to stay with this song as a prayer to Jesus. Perhaps Jesus let me keep this single song in memory to impress on me how much he loved me.
It is normal to wish that an illness or accident never had happened. If you are struggling to recover your health, do not hold back anger and disappointment from God; he can take it. (Lamentations, anyone?) When I prayed for healing, I had definite expectations for my recovery. Yet, God continually uses my chronic illness to heal spiritual wounds that might not have been possible to touch this side of heaven if the accident had not happened. While God does not wish for evil to occur, his will is ultimately better than anything else we could imagine for ourselves. Prior to my accident, I had never considered becoming a Pauline Cooperator. Post injury, Jesus wasted no time in sending me this precious invitation. Having just completed my 6-month inquiry phase, I can’t imagine life without being a Cooperator!
In Divine paradox fashion, chronic illness has not been a detour in my spiritual life. It has brought me to the point we all should reach: praying from a place of surrender and trust. When a rock is thrown into a pond, the ripples can only be seen if the water’s surface is calm. I believe my most fruitful prayers were offered when I could do nothing except stare at the Tabernacle. My mind never wandered and Jesus had to do everything for me. I did not get in the way at all.
Silent syncopation is defined as a “missed beat.” This happens when a “strong music beat is replaced by a rest. This rest creates a deliberate absence of sound that then emphasizes the surrounding weak beats. Although I am “missing a beat” now and then due to my brain injury, my prayers are still a “sweet sound” in Jesus’ ear.
As I packed up my guitar to leave after my performance, the maestro came over to offer his critique. With a smile on his face, this world class composer pointed out every mistake in my song set. I was so impressed, it was as if he had the sheet music in front of him when, in reality, this virtuoso was hearing my songs for the first time. However, it also showed that he was listening. Some of the mistakes noted were that I was late on singing my high notes, sometimes I missed coming in on beat one, and I held other vocal notes too long as I fumbled through chord changes. Still smiling, the maestro added, “But don’t change any of it, the unexpected syncopation in your songs is beautiful!”
Kathy Mark is in formation as a Pauline Cooperator.
Image credit: Image by Kiều Trường from Pixabay