The Gift of Presence

It's another Sunday morning at Mass and every fiber of my is being directed towards my one purpose. No, I don't mean spiritual union with Christ -- I mean keeping my kids quiet and in place. Not currently having any babies, our family has reached a point where we mostly are able to stay in the pew instead of retreating to the back of the church, but I still can leave Mass exhausted and having paid little attention to what is taking place on the altar.

Some weeks, especially a couple of years ago when the kids were younger, I would leave Mass, not only feeling like I had gotten nothing out of it, but that God had gotten nothing out of it! I know the Mass is not all about me, but it also seemed that even if I didn't feel spiritually uplifted, God would at least want my attention in prayer.

That is when I began to reflect on the prayer and the gift that is merely presence, nothing more than being there. As much as we don't want to be purposely disconnected from the Mass, ultimately this is all that the Church specifically asks us - to be there each Sunday. To the disciples in the garden of Gethsemene Christ did not ask, "Can you not stay and pray with me?" or "Can you not stay and talk with me?" No, all he asked was, "Can you not watch with me?"

I have come to believe that merely being there is an act of prayer and love in itself, apart from any words or actions that may accompany it. I think this is true both in our relationship to God and our relationship to other people.

My father gave a beautiful example of this gift of presence a number of years ago when the wife of a family friend suddenly collapsed with a brain tumor. My dad instantly headed over to the hospital, and he spent the whole night there with the husband. My dad is not necessarily one for eloquent words when someone is suffering, but how could words have helped anyway in this moment of great tragedy? He came to give his presence to his friend, nothing more.

I was blessed to share a similar moment with my dad recently as we sat through the night in the hospital room of my dying grandmother. His brothers and sisters told him to leave the hospital and rest, that she would not go that night, and indeed she did not. But I could see that my dad needed to give his mother the only thing that he still could, his presence.

This desire to be there is what compelled me to spend nearly every Saturday morning in college driving an hour away to the nearest abortion clinic and praying on the sidewalk with a few other students. We were not trained sidewalk counselors, and being forced to stand across the street, we may not have even been visible from the clinic. We prayed, yes, but that rosary could easily have been said back at our chapel, with a lot more ease and comfort. But still I went, feeling some inner draw to be there with the suffering women and babies, even if I could do nothing for them.

I felt this same draw in the past couple of years when I would attend my parish's mothers' hour of adoration with my young children. Even though most of the time was spent keeping my middle child from doing tricks on the pews of the historic chapel, still I wanted to go. Even though sometimes the only prayer I could muster was, "I'm here."

Sometimes in my exhaustion and inadequacy, when I don't know what to say or there's nothing I can do, whether it is before the Lord or before the suffering of my neighbor, that is the only gift I have to offer. I'm here.