Posts Tagged ‘prayer’

Walking Among the Waves: A New Free Kindle Book

January 13, 2019

Walking Among the Waves: Three Short Stories from Everyday Life is now available on Kindle. This new book features three short stories set in South Portland, Maine. The foreword is an essay on signs. The text is supported by bead mosaics from eight bracelets and a loom-framed wall hanging. Like the other books I have published on Kindle, this new book is listed at the minimum price of 99¢. 

If anyone is interested, Walking Among the Waves is available free, Sunday & Monday, January 13 & 14.

You do not need a Kindle device. The book can be read on a PC, Mac or phone. This book can be reached by clicking on the image below or with my earlier books on

my Author Page: http://amazon.com/author/mikesmetzer

 

front cover - Walking Among the Waves by Mike Smetzer

In the Eyes of God: A Short Story Set in South Portland, Maine

June 29, 2018

 

Traffic was heavy as I walked back across the Fore River on the Casco Bay Bridge. I had been to visit Steve in the cardiac unit at Mercy Hospital in Portland. I’ve known Steve ever since I started working in the grocery. Steve is Roman Catholic, so he’s afraid to join us Christians without pedigree at the Shoestring Chapel. He doesn’t want his priest giving him a cold eye. But we are friends at work and he knows that I am a lay minister, so sometimes we talk about God.

This is Steve’s third heart attack and he’s more worried about where he’s going after death than he is about dying. He has a point. Steve’s a good guy when he’s sober at work, but he just can’t pass by a bar at happy hour going home. The first couple of drinks relax him, but he can’t stop. And after a few more, well . . . Steve becomes a mean drunk. Some of the guys tried to go with him to help him leave and keep him out of fights. But if you try to cut him off, you’re in a fight with Steve. And if you just keep him company, you’re drawn into Steve’s fights with strangers. Steve’s been married, although she had that annulled, and he’s had a long list of girlfriends, but these R&Rs never bring him any rest & relaxation. What Steve ends up with is romance & restraining order.

Everything went quiet around me as I turned left and walked into the old business district of Knightville in the city of South Portland. Most of the out-of-towners left these shops years ago for the big box stores around the Maine Mall. Now downtown Knightville is a quiet center for residents from the local community.

I walked in past the auto parts stores, the used-book-and-video store, the branch banks, the fast food stops, the old True Value hardware, the Goodwill, and the Chinese buffet. All these places had customers, just no rush, no crowds. It felt good getting back to village life after walking through city traffic. I headed on into Knightville’s Mill Creek Park. As I walked along the duck pond, I saw Bernie Bastardo sitting on a bench watching a mixed flock of birds.

I often run into Bernie at the park. Bernie says he lives there. Really it’s just his living room. He has a room where he sleeps in an old house close by. Bernie works off and on at the grocery where I clerk, but most of his support comes from Human Services and bottle redemption. The soup kitchen helps.

Bernie moved over and nodded for me to sit down. He looked tired.

“Bernie, I’ve just come from visiting Steve. He’s had another heart attack.”

Bernie frowned and shook his head. “Still worried about going to hell?”

“Yes. I told him if he repented and confessed, God would forgive his sins. He’s talked to every priest in southern Maine, but he’s still afraid.”

Bernie opened his pack and started throwing hunks of bread to the ducks and geese. I’ve seen him dig bread out of the compost barrels behind the grocery. He says it’s good food for birds, and sometimes he finds something he likes.

Bernie frowned again. “Steve repents and confesses, but he can’t change.” Bernie sounded agitated.

The geese were bunching up on us and driving the ducks out, so Bernie gave me a loaf of gluten free to tear up and throw on the other side.

“But if we seek God’s love, Bernie, God will accept us for the weak vessels we are and forgive our failings.”

The bread was gone so the birds drifted back to foraging.

Bernie fished a couple Danish out of his pack and offered me one. “Thank you, Bernie. But I ate at Becky’s before I came back.”

Bernie looked more than hungry, actually angry, as he bit a hunk out of the pastry.

“How do you know God will forgive our failings, Brother Mike? I have a brother and a sister. Neither one has forgiven me for who I am.”

“I’m sorry, Bernie. Our families are just people like us. They have their own failings, and sometimes they fail at forgiveness and love. God is different. God’s love is unfailing.”

Bernie chewed on his Danish awhile before looking up.

“God loves those who do what the church says! God doesn’t love those of us who can’t change. The priests don’t cut us no slack. Do what they say or we’re out the door! They recite and the saved respond, in chorus.”

The birds were watching Bernie eating but the tone of his voice kept them back.

I know, Bernie. When I was growing up, our fundamentalist preachers had that view of God. God was this obsessed overseer constantly watching you. Commit a sin and he would write you up. Do it twice and he would fire you like a cannon ball out of the Army of the Saved. But, Bernie, we Christians have Jesus. Jesus is the good cop at God’s throne. Jesus is the fuckup’s advocate who sacrificed his life to get us reenlisted. Jesus loves us for who we are.”

“Providing we grovel on our knees, confess to the priest, and do our penance.”

Bernie threw the last of his Danish at a little duck on the far edge of the flock, but a big goose charged in and took it.

“Well, yes, Bernie, I suppose…Actually it was different in my church. If we did something really bad, we had to confess to the whole congregation, and then they prayed for us.”

“Shit! Bad enough to confess to a voice in a closet.”

“Yes, but for the little stuff we confessed directly to God in prayer.”

Bernie took a Pepsi bottle out of his pack and began drinking some clear liquid inside. His refreshment seemed to calm him down.

“Mike, I’d rather face a droning priest than an angry God. I know in this town you want an attorney beside you when you stand up before a judge.”

“Well, we had to plead our own case.”

Bernie took a little more from the Pepsi bottle and relaxed into a smile.

“Actually, Mike, I don’t think God is as angry as Steve and those church people think. Maybe he’s like my brother and sister. If they don’t see me or hear about me, it’s like I don’t exist. Maybe God’s not even interested in us. I mean people pull the same stupid crap over and over. And we have been doing dumb shit for thousands of years. God must have gotten bored after Adam and Eve. He knows we’ll never wise up. It’s not in our nature. We’re a done deal.”

“Hm. Individual people can change, though. You and I don’t have to repeat our sins.”

“I seem to.”

Some of birds had come back and Bernie smiled at the little duck poking his head around inside his pack.

“God’s bored, Bro.”

Bernie finished his Pepsi bottle and closed it up inside his pack. “God’s not going to notice me pocketing a little food. You could whack a whole family and just get a yawn. And if you want help, better dial 911. Saying a prayer for help is like sending snail mail without a stamp. It might bounce back but it won’t be delivered.”

“I still feel like someone is listening when I pray.”

Bernie laughed.

“Well, Mike, since you brought that mullah into the Shoestring Chapel to explain jihads, it’s probably Homeland Security.”

“But you do think God exists?”

“Yes, but the Big Guy’s busy. He’s probably working on some other galaxy right now. Just because we’re important to us, doesn’t mean we’re important to Him.” Bernie and the little duck were eyeing each other. Almost like he was talking to the duck. “We’re the ones listening to our own prayers. And we’re the ones who have to help ourselves.”

“And you don’t pray, Bernie?”

Bernie looked over at me and smiled.

“Yeah, sometimes I do pray, God help me. I’m only human.”

 

Copyright © 2018 by Michael B. Smetzer

 

Prayer, a Statue in Calvary Cemetery in S. Portland, Maine. Photo by Vera Lisa Smetzer.

Prayer, a Statue in Calvary Cemetery in S. Portland, Maine. Photo by Vera Lisa Smetzer.

Prayer to the God Who Keeps House in my Shoes

April 1, 2018

Help me to accept myself.  To accept the path I have found to walk.  To accept each fall and rise of that path.  To accept myself and my path as one.

I am not asking for a beautiful and surprising path.  Any true path will be beautiful and surprising.  I am not asking for a great prize at its end.  The prize I seek on my walk is already in the walker.

I do ask for awareness of my steps.  To feel my feet in my shoes meet the ground.  To feel my spirit move with my body.  To feel my body and spirit move with the Spirit of the world.  I ask to have my eyes see, my ears hear, my nose smell, my tongue taste, my skin touch.  Keep me alert to all the people, all the animals, all the plants.  And to all the seemingly lifeless forms of earth, water, and air.

Walk me through the world of my perceptions.  Fit my shoes to a spirit as gentle as a meandering stream.  Give me corns and blisters for my path until my feet become as discerning as the eyes of a crow.

Give me enough pain to respond to my needs.  Give me enough pleasure to tame my desires.  Give me enough compassion to feel the pain of others.  Give me enough kinship to celebrate communal joy.

Keep me walking my path without fear or shame.  With my share of folly but not with great folly.  With my share of seriousness but not with great seriousness.  Keep my body and spirit in balance.  Teach me to plant my steps on the spot of the path now before me, the only place and time where I can think or act.

 

First published in Brother Michael This Morning.

 

Mom Was Always Big in the Church - photo by Bernie Smetzer

Mom Was Always Big in the Church – photo by Bernie Smetzer

The Widow Battinelli

June 19, 2017

 

Father Lucarelli consoles me, my speech
falters. Black veiled ladies bring by a meal,

offer to pray with me for his soul, to beseech
God. I tear their prayer card as I kneel

next to Cosmo’s photograph on a pool of lace.
At night, I open the urn by the bed,

scoop cold ashes to smooth across my face.
Our cat circles and cries for the dead,

the familiar lap in the empty chair.
Cosmo’s silver watch beats distressed,

the weight of sixty years I bear.
Coarse links chafe against my breast.

Pregare Dio!” the black veils drone.
My faith gone dry as ash and bone.

 

Copyright © 2017 by Alvera Lisa Smetzer

Angel of Strength - photo by Vera Lisa Smetzer

Strength – photo by Vera Lisa Smetzer