[1132 words]
My eyes silently scanned the room. In the circle at the table with me, my sisters and mother had their eyes closed, following the family prayer time rules. My dad spoke to God. He thanked him for his care. He asked him for health for different family members. Then once all the topics had been covered, he said “Thank you, Lord, for this food that you provide daily. In Jesus’ Name…”
Quickly, I squeezed my eyes shut, only to open them again at his deep finishing “…Amen”.
Prayer. It was given a sacred place in our family. Before every meal, three times a day, we paused, held one another’s hands creating a united circle around the table, and closed our eyes.
“Prayer is a time to focus on God.” We were constantly told as children, “closing your eyes keeps you from being distracted.”
Was it because God is an unseen being that we had to limit our sense of sight while talking to him?
My dad’s prayers turned into sermons. His friends always said, “Don’t ask John to pray. The food will get cold.”
In the mornings, our food never got cold. A big box of cornflakes, the only cereal within my mom’s grocery budget, sat on the table waiting for its seal to be broken.
My special breakfast recipe included cornflakes and a heaping spoon of sugar (maybe two) when my parents weren’t looking. Next, I would quickly cover up all evidence of extravagance with a brimming bowl of milk. It’s impossible to separate sugar from milk once it’s dissolved.
Every morning, I resolved to keep my eyes shut during the whole prayer. It’s what a good daughter does, obeying rules that don’t make sense. Sometimes I’d try to focus on God. What did he look like? God and Jesus were supposed to be the same being. I had seen drawings of Jesus, but I knew they were someone else’s imagination. He usually had blond hair and blue eyes and skin as pale as milk. Some people gave him brown hair and brown eyes. I once saw a picture of him with chocolate colored skin with black curly hair. If no one knew exactly what God looked like (including myself), how did my parents expect me to focus on him?
In the end, my eyes would pop open and observe the people at the table with me. My younger sister sat next to me. We like to play school together. She willingly pretended to be my devoted student and filled out the worksheets I created for her. Sometimes when a streak of generosity entered my soul, I let her also be a teacher. We’d line up our stuffed animals and give them the worksheets instead.
Next to her sat my older sister. She liked to lead us in imaginary games of traveling across the world. We’d gather together a picnic lunch, mixing random ingredients to make new and exciting concoctions. Some turned into curdled milk, but others like the famous peanut butter and tomato sandwiches were repeated often (even into adulthood).
I smiled. This kitchen, our circle and my dad’s prayer wouldn’t be the same without them.
“Thank you, Lord, for the food…”
Changing my view, my eyes wandered to the cereal. Behind it sat sliced oranges. “Everyone must have at least three slices.” My mother always admonished us. “To grow strong and healthy you need vitamin C.” Oranges didn’t taste good after cereal. I followed the rules but ate the oranges as my main meal and cereal as the dessert.
Continuing down the closed circle my eyes met my dad’s. His eyes were also open and also looking down the circle of bowed heads. But for a different reason. They were checking. I was caught. In the act of seeing. Guilty. Again.
After the meal he handed me a paper with one sentence: I will close my eyes when we pray. “Write it 100 times.” He said.
Last time it had been only 50 times. I found writing sentences to be a good workout for my hand, it didn’t seem to help train my eyes.
“Why don’t you close your eyes when we pray?” My dad asked when I handed him the finished homework. “Are you afraid of the dark?”
“No,” I said, pausing to think back to our time around the table and what I had seen when my eyelids were shut. “It’s like…” An empty weightless darkness came into my imagination. No words. Just darkness. “It’s like…I don’t know.”
He let me go with an unfinished answer, but his question sparked my curiosity. Why was it so important? What did other people see behind their eyelids that made it easy to keep them shut? Did God meet them in the darkness?
During the next long prayer, I closed my eyes and let myself go. Not trying to imagine God or anything in particular. I felt weightless… Instantly, my eyes popped open. I had almost left the world and floated into nothingness.
“But you are safe.” I told myself, “Try again. You can’t get lost, you are holding on to your sisters’ hands.”
Shutting my eyes, I tried again. I fell. Down. Into darkness. Far away from the kitchen, the cereal, my dad’s voice. Emptiness. Floating away. All I felt were my sisters’ warm clutching hands anchoring me to the world where I knew I belonged. Attached. But not attached. My arms 100 miles long. Growing longer by the second. Nothing. I felt nothing. Only my hands…
I wanted to stop. Opening my eyes, light hit my pupils. I zoomed forward and reattached to my hands. The milk, table, and clasped hands came back to focus. Colors in the room seemed brighter. The air felt fresh. The scene before me looked so familiar and yet so new. I had been gone and now I was back.
I had found my answer. God was definitely not in that disassociating darkness. He was much nearer than that. Every meal, I saw him in each family member who sat around the table. I saw him in the food that was waiting to be eaten. I saw him within the closed circle of our tightly clasped hands.
My dad’s voice began to near the end of his prayer. “Thank you, God, for this food…In Jesus Name…” Closing my eyes tight, I reopened them at my dad’s deep finishing “…Amen.”
Released to finally prepare my breakfast, I poured milk over my special cornflakes recipe. At last, without shame, I watched the sugar disappear. Only God could separate sugar from milk. He followed his own rules even if they broke our traditions. Scrapping my spoon at the bottom of the bowl to capture the few undissolved sugar crystals, I thanked him for every bite.
Lillian Joyce, born in New York, spent most of her childhood in the Middle East with her family. Following her childhood dream, she worked on the ship Africa Mercy, before settling in West Asia. She loves writing personal essays using these multicultural experiences. Her writing can be found in the anthologies “We Hold These Truths”, “Growing Older With Grace (with a little Humor)” and “Yet We Still Laugh”. Aside from writing and exploring, she also enjoys sitting on the couch looking out the window watching the rain drip down the glass while deep in thought. Visit her on Instagram: lillianjoyce8
