Prayer in 4/4 Time

1.

The good thing about cleaning, about all the tiny repetitive movements, one after another, then another and another, unhurriedly or all bunched together, like notes in the score of a symphony, a punk symphony, something off Neurosis’ 1992 Souls at Zero album, for example, the good thing about it is that you have time to think. Pastures aplenty, your thoughts are free to frolic and graze. The problem, though, is that sometimes they can go too far afield and, un-herded, they can dig up stuff buried in the moss and weeds, long lost artifacts.

Towards the end of my shift, I noticed that there was no more liquid soap in the hand dispenser above the sink, a problem so common, whose solution has been automatized to such an extent that I turned on my heels without as much as a thought and headed to the supply closet at the end of the hallway. On automatic pilot, I unclipped the keyring from the carabiner on my beltloop and started sifting through the keys for the right one. As I was doing so, I thought, Hey, I should get Uncle Djuro one of these for his next birthday!

Wait, why would Uncle Djuro need a keyring? Unsummoned, the thought had just appeared. But why? It was just sitting there in front of me, mute. Why had I been so certain that Uncle Djuro could use a keyring? I couldn’t figure it out at first. But, as I was rummaging through the back of the supply closet for the liquid soap refill, it hit me. For the first time in thirty years, I remembered the day that God hid Uncle Djuro’s keys.

2.

All of our giggling and goofing around wasn’t helping any. Couldn’t we see that Uncle Djuro was running late for his sermon? Imagine all those worshippers, just sitting in the pews, with no pastor in the pulpit, and there we were, giggling and goofing, not helping any. Did we want a good talking to? A grounding? Cuz that is what we were asking for and that is what we were going to get, if we didn’t simmer down and hush up and start helping. Besides, it was probably us. Yeah, it must have been. Come on, cough them up. What did we do with them? Where did we hide them? Under the couch cushions? No, not out in the patio! Don’t tell us you took them out in the patio! Oh, we were asking for it. Better pray those keys show up.

Uncle Djuro was walking back and forth, in ever tightening circles. I had never seen his eyes so big, his cheeks so flushed, his hair so dishevelled. What were those words he was saying over and over again under his breath almost imperceptibly? Was he talking to himself? Was he talking to God? Was it a prayer? A bible verse? An incantation? If I hadn’t known better, I would have said that it sounded a lot like swear words, the ones we weren’t allowed to say, the ones we heard every day. In the presence of anything even resembling a swear word, there was only one safe option: to play dumb. It would be incriminating to even admit that we knew of the existence of such utterances.

In a flash of inspiration that could only have been divine, Uncle Djuro stopped pacing, stood up straight, feet together on the shag carpeting, head bowed, eyes closed, arms extended, palms open. The room went silent. We didn’t need anyone to tell us what this meant: it was prayer time. One by one we took up our spots, heads bowed, hands linked, eyes closed, until the circle was complete.

"Diálogo con Velador Cristo," Liliana Porter, 1998.

Lord, God, we ask for your guidance, for your golden rays, and those of your Son, to dispel the darkness and illuminate The Path to those rascally keys in their lair of mischief, in their den of defiance, their unholy hiding place, so that your humble servant may serve You in your House on this Holy Day to preach your Word to the congregation, already in the pews and so eager to serve.

As usual, he was praying in 4/4 time and had reached the end of the bar. It felt like the right place to say, amen. And, in fact, I had starting to do so. From both sides, my hands were squeezed tight and hard enough for me to realize that I had gotten ahead of myself. I went silent. The neighboring palms relaxed their grip.

And we ask you to remember little Tanya. She had her braces tightened again this week. The doctor said a year, but she doesn’t know if she can make it that long. It hurts her so, and photo day will be here before we know it. So, we pray for strength, and we pray that there is room in your Plans to push up that date up a little, if only a few weeks, in time for picture day. Amen.

After the collective amen, we returned to upending the furniture and scattered the couch cushions throughout the living room. Ma and Uncle Djuro scurried off to the kitchen and their cold coffee cups. They were making more noise there than we were in the living room. No easy feat! Ma said something about a taxicab. The coat rack fell to the floor. The muffled sound of a keyring. Two voices, veterans of the choir, in unison and in tune recited a two-word psalm: found them! The dry snap of the aluminum screen door as it closed. Footsteps on the porch stairs. The engine turning. The sounds of tire on the pavement.

It took a while for Ma to make it to the living room. By then, the furniture was right-side-up, and all the cushions were back in place. In our Sunday best, we were ready, once the curlers were removed from Ma’s hair, to catch up with Uncle Djuro for the second service.

“Well, the Lord really does work in mysterious ways!” It was the only explanation she offered.