One of my strongest and earliest memories is of a prayer.
As a Catholic family, one of our rituals at the end of each day was to wrap up bedtime prep with an old standard, a rhyme even non-Christians of a certain age could likely recite along with me: “Now I lay me down to sleep / Pray the Lord my soul to keep / If I should die before I wake / Pray the Lord my soul to take”. This was immediately followed by a list of people that one wanted God to bless (“God bless Mommy and Daddy and …”). At this point, one was allowed to add any additional items, which usually consisted of a wishlist for God, not unlike a letter to Santa, detailing what He can do for you now that you’ve been such a good girl and blessed everyone else. Amen.
That is a different memory, though. It’s an overall general recollection that is more of an amalgamation of the many, many evenings of reciting this before the lights when out and my sister and I played shadow puppets for the next hour until we could actually drift off.
The prayer that I’m referencing now is etched in my brain as though I have it on film. In the span of a breath, my mind’s eye can press “play” and I’m transported — to the living room of my childhood home. I’m maybe five or six years old, standing alone at the bottom of the stairs leading to our second floor, next to a three-dimensional art piece of golden tree branches and leaves. My mother and sister are close by, but I’ve wandered away from their activities, intentionally. I have something important that I need to do, and I have to do it where nobody else can see or hear.
I need to pray, but it’s not a normal sleepytime prayer, not an end of day chant, not a “god bless so-and-so” plea. No, this is much more important, and has no place in being said aloud where the rest of my family could hear it, and where I could very possibly get in trouble for it.
I need to have a chat with God about death. Not just my death, but everyone else’s, too.
Certain that I am far enough away that my whispers wouldn’t carry, I tuck myself under that golden tree, clapse my hands together as my mother taught me, close my eyes, and share my deepest desire with the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit: “Please make everyone else die before I die. I want to be the last person alive on Earth. Amen.”
I open my eyes, drop my hands, and am 100% convinced that I’ve just dodged a bullet and my prayer will work. I am equally convinced that I have just asked for something rather un-Christian and better not tell my mother about it.
So here we are in 2025. I’m not saying this is the year of reckoning or anything, but we are coming up on my 50th birthday. It’s almost a sure bet that I have less life in front of me than what is behind me. The clock is ticking, some days a little faster than others. Every day is another step closer to the inevitable. And you never know whether God liked the sound of my idea. I hear He’s got a unique sense of humor.
As the Doctor said, “We’re all stories in the end. Just make it a good one, eh?”
Muttering Retreats 