Catholic
Spirituality
Again,
the litany reminds:
God
is with us
Guest
Columnist
Michelle
Francl-Donnay
All
you winds, bless the Lord.
Fire and heat, bless the Lord.
Lightnings and clouds, bless the Lord.
All you birds of the air, bless the Lord.
All you beasts, wild and tame, bless the Lord.
You sons of men, bless the Lord.
[Dn:65-66,73,80-82]
Thunder
was rumbling ominously outside, the air heavy with impending tragedy.
Chris, my 10-year-old, materialized in the kitchen.
“I think Rufus is dead, Mom.” Rufus is his hamster.
“What makes you think that?”
“He didn’t eat dinner and he’s not breathing.”
Rufus is downright ancient for a hamster, and unlike pre-teen boys, food
is not always the first thing on his mind, so the lack of appetite was
not, itself, worrisome. The not-breathing, however … I dried my
hands on a towel and went to check. Requiescat in pacem, Rufus.
The next morning dawned bright and clear. While his brother prepared a
box for Rufus’ mortal remains, Chris and his friends planned the
ceremony.
Chris takes prayer seriously. (His recipe for chocolate-chip cookies includes
a reminder to say a blessing when you dump in the chocolate chips.) Thus,
I was sure that Rufus would not be consigned to the earth unblessed.
“Can you find a prayer, Mom?” My “of course!”
was followed by the frantic thought: “Does the Book of Blessings
cover this?” It doesn’t.
The memory of a conversation with a Jesuit friend penetrated my panic.
The 6-year-old son of friends had wanted him to fly to North Carolina
to preside at his fish’s funeral. Four phone calls later, he’d
sent an order for the service, drawing the passage above from the book
of Daniel - the litany of the three young men in the furnace.
We gathered under the plum tree. “All you winds…,” I
began. “Bless the Lord,” drifted softly back. As the litany
in praise of creation rolled on, the voices grew stronger, the tears dried.
The penultimate invocation, “All you beasts, wild and tame…,”
called forth a firm: “Bless the Lord!” and a smothered giggle
from the youngest neighbor.
This litany, ancient even when the author of Daniel put it into the mouths
of the young men in Nebuchadnezzar’s fiery furnace, brought comfort,
and even laughter into my son’s grief. The children’s voices
took me back to my mother’s bedside, hearing my siblings and father
praying the Litany of the Saints, and watching her struggle to join in
our responses, almost to the moment of her death. Why do we, like Daniel’s
young men in peril, reach for these poem-prayers in desperate times?
When my sons were tiny and my words had no meaning for them, I comforted
them by holding them over my shoulder and patting them on the back. Each
touch reminded my beloved child: “I am here with you.” The
rhythmic structure of a litany, I realized, offers that same certain comfort
to us - long after we leave our mother’s arms. We remember all that
God has done for us, again and again.
The word, itself, comes from the Greek litanos, meaning “one who
cries out.” Our tradition blesses us with many ways to “cry
out” to God: the ancient Psalm 136; the Litany of the Saints, which
rang in the streets of Rome in the 4th century, and the Litany of the
Blessed Virgin, its misty origins in the Celtic tradition.
In our hour of need, let us call on God in these litanies and be reminded
by each sure, certain touch: God is here with us.
Father,
Your love never fails.
Hear our call.
Keep us from danger and provide for all our needs.
Grant this through our Lord, Jesus Christ, Your Son, who lives and reigns
with You and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever.
Amen.
Michelle Francl-Donnay is a member of Our Mother of Good Counsel Parish
in Bryn Mawr. She can be reached at: mfrancldonnay@gmail.com.