Saved by a Prayer

*DISCLAIMER: I know religion and faith can be very sensitive topics, even controversial, especially in a religiously and ethnically diverse environment, and are thus best to be avoided. However, the ideas explored in this post were the first ideas that popped into my head during the cold personal we wrote in-class; with that said, this post neither intends to offend any religious sensibilities nor endorse any particular belief systems. If any person reading this finds offense, I want to ask for forgiveness and to offer my most sincere apologies.

PROMPT: What do these texts suggest about the impact significant events have on an individual’s ability to determine their own destiny?

 

For as long as I could remember, I was raised by my parents to live my faith. Let me repeat it: I was raised not just to love it, but to live it. It formed a part of my very being, from the air I breathed, to the food I ate, to the things I enjoyed in my spare time. Day by day, my parents – Ma and Pa, as I liked to call them – drilled me with verses from the Holy Book, expecting that I would someday go out into the world and preach the same Gospel they raised me in.

“You were born to become a missionary,” my parents always used to say. In that regard, I was just like the other eighteen-year old boys who were fortunate enough to share my faith. Destined since birth, we were expected to propagate what we’d been taught to the ends of the earth, sharing the truth of our religion to the so-called heathens and pagans, which, at the time at least, made up the majority of our little Alabamian town.

Unlike the other boys, however, I never took anything at face value. I listened to my parents, alright, but I never perceived anything they said as the whole, absolute truth and nothing but the truth. I don’t know what it was about me. Just my curiosity, I guess.

“George,” Pa said to me one hot afternoon “someday, you’re gonna preach about God to the world. You’re gonna tell those heathens about the truth of our religion, and you’re gonna convert them, by God, you’re gonna convert them.” Back then, I was an eight-year old all-American farm boy who’d rather spend his days digging for worms, fishing by the stream, and swimming in the creek by our house, getting all filthy from head to toe. It beat having to sit in a pew in my Sunday best, that’s for sure. So, as you might’ve gathered already, I was pretty uncomfortable with all this talk.

Uneasy about Pa’s insistence, I answered back, albeit timidly: “What if they don’t want to be converted, Pa? What if they have the truth, and we don’t? What if we’re spreading lies instead of helping them?”

That was the day I discovered my father’s wrath. I don’t remember much about that day, back in that sweltering Alabama afternoon, but I do recall having been bullied at my school for days on end afterwards. Something about a black eye, if my memory serves me right. Needless to say, I never questioned the faith, or my Pa, again – at least publicly, anyways.

Years passed, as they always tend to do, and eventually, the day I turned eighteen came along. It was a cool, crisp November morning and there was nary a spot in the sky that wasn’t covered in clouds. Those dark clouds, thundering like a herd of bulls as black as night, signalled rain. Ma always called them signs of rejuvenation and new life. I always called them symbols of despair.

That morning, I went into the church a child, and I came out of it a man. Dressed in a white, neatly-pressed collared shirt and a black silk tie – the garb of our religion-practicing men – I was prepared to go out into the world and spread my faith to the heathen nations. I can still remember Ma’s tears rolling down her flushed cheeks, and Pa’s solemn, but noble, face nodding in approval. I shudder just to think of them, not because of who they were to me, but because of what I would later do to them and to their hearts, which I now know must have only been full of love for me and my very fragile soul.

Anyway, as had been the tradition for three centuries, my first-day as an eighteen-year old, an adult in the eyes of the faith, was marked by the first time I preached the faith in a stranger’s house. We weren’t expected to convert anybody (the last time anybody did that was fifty-two years ago, or so Pa said), but it was expected to be a taste of the life of a missionary that we had before us.

So, equipped with the Holy Book, dressed in a white shirt and black tie, and armed with eighteen years’ worth of religious knowledge, I knocked on the door of the first house on Neibolt Street, just like my dad and grandfather and generations of men did before them. After all, it was a street famed for its promiscuity, its gambling, its drunkenness, and its hoard of vice and sin. In other words, the street reeked like the very gates of the eternal fire. If anybody needed salvation, it was the inhabitants of Neibolt Street.

The first house of that infamous street overlooked a crosswalk, which was now slowly becoming adorned with the crystal raindrops falling steadier by the second. Lightning flashed and moments later, the rolling sound of thunder boomed somewhere in the distance. If the door didn’t open soon, I was going to have to find another house or risk being drenched by the ruthless thunderstorm fast approaching. Finally, however, the door opened and before me stood an old woman, wrinkled in appearance though beautiful to behold. Her ancient, blue eyes sparkled as she welcomed me into her house, her words warm and accepting without even a word regarding what I, a stranger, was doing in her house. I could only guess she knew my intention after decades of having been visited by young men dressed in white shirts and black ties.

As soon as I shook the dust off my shoes, she motioned towards the couch in her living room, asking me to sit, and I did so with the slightest bit of reluctance. My heart began to pound and I could feel trickles of sweat slithering down the back of my neck. Needless to say, I was nervous. She sat in the chair opposite from the couch, and with those same, warm eyes, she asked me about what I was doing there. It was for formality’s sake, I imagine. Stuttering a little, I finally managed to murmur a few words about my new life as a missionary for my faith.

“A missionary, eh?” she asked with a smile as she poured out a cup of tea.

“Yes, ma’am. I’m here to tell you about the gospel of my faith. I’m here to tell you about God.”

With a slow nod, she placed down the cup of tea she was holding on the wooden table beside her. To be honest, I felt sad for her. Here I was, the most recent of strangers trying to introduce change to her long-lived life, a change that I myself didn’t even believe in. I didn’t even know if it was the truth.

Finally, I summoned the courage and, just as I was taught, asked, “Why don’t we start with a little prayer?”

Once again, she nodded. She then bowed her head and after a pause, started to pray out loud. I began to feel my heart pound. I was supposed to lead the prayer, not her. She was praying to the god of the heathens, to the god of the pagans. She was a sinner – a sinner from Neibolt Street, no less – though her appearance was certainly a stark contrast with the Neibolt sinners of my childhood imagination. Frantic thoughts raced through my tangled mind. Should I stop her?

I was just about to, when suddenly, I stopped to listen to her words. She talked about gratitude, and mercy, and virtue. She talked about goodness, and compassion, and faith. But most of all, she talked about God. No, she talked to God. It was then when I began to feel a change of heart. Her words covered me like water skimming the stones of a river. I could feel the peace emanating from her, I could feel the warmth, the wisdom, the love. At that moment, I knew that she knew who God was. There I was, intending to talk about God, but not knowing who He was. Unlike me, she knew Him.

When she finished, my eyes were to the brim with tears. Even if she didn’t know the truth, at least I knew I didn’t either. Filled with a new resolve, I simply thanked her for her time and left. I didn’t even give her an explanation, but perhaps she knew. Now facing the street across the house, I never looked back.

I gazed out towards the crosswalk, strengthened with the possibilities of change. The dark clouds now covered the sky, and rain was pouring in torrents. Even in my newly-found independence, I smiled to think that Ma was right. Maybe rain was indeed the symbol of rejuvenation and new life.

I took a look at my tie against my now wet shirt, the symbol of what used to be my faith, and threw it across my shoulder. No longer would doubt be the center of my life. No longer would others control what I believed in. No longer would my destiny be determined by the likes and dislikes of others. My childhood faith might’ve been the truth, of course, but I was now equipped with the resolve to seek out the truth for myself. If the faith of my childhood was the truth, I knew I’d find my way back to it, one way or another.

For the moment, though, it didn’t matter. I was now the master of my fate, one saved by a prayer. I chuckled at the irony. As my parents said, I did become a man when I turned eighteen. It was, however, not as a result of me becoming a missionary, but as a consequence of finding my own voice. This one encounter with that pious woman- not any proclamation from a pulpit – was the significant event that allowed me to seize my own destiny. Then, with this in my mind and with one look at the crying sky, I laughed in a way I’d never heard myself before. But, who could blame me? I felt free. I was free.

Thus, with a smile carved on my face and a tie drooping on my shoulder, I stepped out onto the crosswalk in the rain.

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10 thoughts on “Saved by a Prayer

  1. Fren!!
    Why have you been so modest about your creative abilities for so long? This was fantastic! I’m seriously not gassing up, you’re really quite talented. Your writing style had me hooked and when the old lady started praying I let out an audible gasp. Like a very heavy ~inhale~ at your story – if that doesn’t convince you I’m in awe I’m not sure what will. I am so happy to see you breaking up your paragraphs a lil’ because it makes your very sophisticated writing a little less daunting for simpletons, like myself. Oh, my favourite part was “reeked like the very gates of the eternal fire,” not cause ~Hell~ or whatever but just how spectacularly you wrote it. Diddly dang dude (ehe), this is so good!

    As far as improvements go, I would have maybe liked to see some photos as it is now a blog as well as a personal – visual aids are fun? Um, I guess the italicized “I” at the beginning of a sentence looked a little like a backslash, so maybe figure that out. (That was a total cop-out – I don’t know how to improve this)

    Once again, fabulous piece, Jieo! Great work!

    Much love,
    Ibukun

    1. Dear Ibukun,

      Thank you so much for your kind words! I must admit that I still have a lot to improve upon when it comes to creative writing, but I’m so glad you enjoyed it just the same!

      As for improvement, I can certainly understand why aesthetics are important. I will see what I can do in regards to adding more pictures, though I hope that any photos I add won’t ruin the mood of the piece! In regards to its “looks,” I might need your help, as I know that you’re somewhat of an expert when it comes to visual aids!

      Once again, thank you for taking the time to read this and I hope that you truly liked it!

      Ever yours,
      Jieo

  2. Dearest Jieo,

    In all honesty, this is by far the absolute BEST example of a personal response that I have ever read. I can guarantee that if you took this into diploma you could easily score a mark above 95%. You have continuously grown in the semester you have been in AP, and I am beyond jealous of your talent in writing. This piece was flawless. Not only was the theme coherent but the symbolism and voice of your character was absolutely captivating and relevant to your prompt at hand. I am in LOVE with your symbolism about rain and how you clearly tied in the theme of destiny directly into the image of falling rain and the image of “rejuvenated life” – like that was MONEY. I can safely say to you that you have mastered the skill of the personal response. For an assessor on a diploma, you would have both clearly made your argument known as well as entertain and surprise them, which is the NUMBER ONE thing you need to do. Next, I’d like to comment on the voice of the character. That simple nuance you had made your piece all the more personal and refined, and your own personal insights into religion worked PERFECTLY to tie in this prompt. It was also very smart of you to make the last few paragraphs of your piece low-key matter paragraphs, meaning you clearly explored the matter of the human condition in relation to your prompt while giving a sweet ending to your narrative. BRAVO MY LOVE!

    I’m finding it hard to provide any critique for this piece. This honestly was such a helpful learning tool for my diploma exam so thank you. If I could provide any suggestion, maybe talk about the tie more? I loved the symbolism at the end, so it would have been nice to see how your character felt about its restricting nature as he was perhaps dressing for his 18th birthday? I think that could maybe make the strength of the tie image greater.

    I loved this Jieo. Thank you.

    With love,

    Yas

    1. Dear Yas,

      Please trust me when I say that the honour is mine. I’m so glad that you took something away from this piece; in fact, your feedback is making me aware of things I didn’t even think of while writing! I certainly couldn’t have done any of this without your help and without your guidance, as the lessons you have imparted throughout the semester have meant a lot to me! Thank you so much!

      In regards to the symbolism surrounding the tie, I certainly agree that I need to explain its significance a bit more. I’m so glad that you enjoyed the symbolism in the piece, and I will surely keep in mind the importance of stronger symbols for any future compositions! Also, thank you for your suggestion about a tie’s restricting nature; it certainly does fit in with the character’s mindset towards the principles imposed upon him!

      Once more, I am so pleased that I was able to contribute a lil’ something for the preparation towards your diploma exam. I guess it’s a way of showing my gratitude for all your love and support that I was blessed with throughout the semester. Going into AP was certainly a daunting experience, but thanks to you, I have found a place where I feel welcomed and am welcome, where I can fail and do fail, and where I can love and am loved. Yas, I couldn’t have done any of this – my writing, my learning, my loving – without you. I will treasure your advice in my heart for as long as I have hands to write with and a heart to write from.

      Ever yours,
      Jieo

  3. Dearest Jieo,

    WOW. Why couldn’t you have been in AP last year!?! You most definitely belong here. I have had the privilege of being able to read both your critical and creative pieces and you have extraordinary capabilities in both! Here, in a creative piece, you were able to completely explore the prompt in connection to the text. Your use of placing your story, at the end, at the crosswalk in the rain was an intelligent choice that displayed the connection to the text excellently.

    Here are a couple of lines that I loved for their ability to make me either smile, gasp, or maybe even cry:

    1) “That was the day I discovered my father’s wrath. I don’t remember much about that day, back in that sweltering Alabama afternoon, but I do recall having been bullied at my school for days on end afterwards. Something about a black eye, if my memory serves me right.” This one made me gasp and tear up a little bit.

    2) “In other words, the street reeked like the very gates of the eternal fire. If anybody needed salvation, it was the inhabitants of Neibolt Street.” This one made me gasp at the way you previously described the street and your summarization.

    3) “She then bowed her head and after a pause started to pray out loud. I began to feel my heart pound. I was supposed to lead the prayer, not her. She was praying to the god of the heathens, to the god of the pagans. She was a sinner – a sinner from Neibolt Street, no less – though her appearance was certainly a stark contrast with the Neibolt sinners of my childhood imagination. Frantic thoughts raced through my tangled mind. Should I stop her?” This one made me gasp, smile, and cry!! Geez Jieo, you are one incredible writer!

    In terms of improvement like Ibukun, I too, don’t have much to offer. Sorry!

    Never stop writing!

    All the love,

    Victoria

    1. Dear Victoria,

      I am so blessed to have found such a supportive and caring family through the AP English class. I wasn’t in AP last year, but it’s only now that I realize I’ve long missed such a great source of comfort and inspiration. Sometimes, I guess, you don’t know you don’t have something until it’s too late.

      Also, I’m so glad that you found much emotion in the piece! It truly touches my heart (and surprises me as well) when someone else finds something of value in something I’ve done. While I still have a long way to go, it is the support of people such as yourself that motivates me to keep on doing what I do, even if I feel worthless or not good enough. Thanks for your love and support! It really, truly means a lot to me!

      Ever yours,
      Jieo

  4. Dear Jieo,

    There is not much I can offer that’d differ from the wonderful ladies above. But I’d like to say that being one who loves symbolism and clever character development, this piece has got to be one of my favorite short stories I’ve read. I loved how you used the symbolism of the sky and dark clouds, “Those dark clouds, thundering like a herd of bulls as black as night, signalled rain. Ma always called them signs of rejuvenation and new life. I always called them symbols of despair” from before his encounter with the old woman and then after, his perspective changes, “The dark clouds now covered the sky, and rain was pouring in torrents. Even in my newly-found independence, I smiled to think that Ma was right. Maybe rain was indeed the symbol of rejuvenation and new life.” This was, without a doubt, very clever for it offers insight to how the boy has matured into a man, and although he initially “went into the church a child, and I came out of it a man”, his true change was AFTER the encounter with the woman. Not only does this offer insight, but it makes the character so much more human. It shows that he did have the ability to determine his own destiny disregarding outward events inflicted by his parents (which also ties in perfectly with the prompt). Nicely done.

    In relation to my love for the symbolism, I think to make it even more interesting, you could’ve added the symbolism at the beginning, rather than around the middle, or perhaps added another symbol altogether. Nevertheless, this is only my wistful thinking and my perspective on things, but this piece is already phenomenal the way it is; great job!

    Smiles,
    Judy

    1. Dear Judy,

      First of all, I’m so glad you took the time to read this post! I’m pleased to hear that you appreciated the symbolism, as well as the character development that the narrator undergoes. Believe me, I couldn’t have done it without being inspired by your example and the example of the others in our table group family throughout the semester!

      Also, I’m so thankful for your suggestions! Symbolism certainly is an important part of the stories we read as they often, in a way, capture the mystery locked in the human condition. I will keep your suggestion in mind as I attempt any future endeavour at a creative piece!

      Once again, thanks for taking the time to read this piece! I truly appreciate it!

      Ever yours,
      Jieo

  5. Dear Jieo,

    WOW. Saved by a Prayer is such a thought-provoking and introspective piece; I was captivated by every line. It not only fit well with the prompt and text, but it was also skillfully written. I would have never thought to relate the picture to this type of unique story!

    I especially love the line, “She was a sinner – a sinner from Neibolt Street, no less – though her appearance was certainly a stark contrast with the Neibolt sinners of my childhood imagination.” because it touched on an aspect of human nature of how an individual’s assumptions, as well as perspective, can be formed based on appearances and memory.

    It has already been mentioned a lot, but the continuous mention and symbolism of the rain, sky, and clouds blew me away alongside the varying connotations associated with them. When you incorporated even the detail of his tie flung over his shoulder I exclaimed out loud in awe; you were able to seamlessly (and beautifully) bridge everything together in the end. I really have no improvements to offer! I have definitely gained writing inspiration just by reading this. Thank you. 🙂

    Sincerely,
    Faith

    1. Dear Faith,

      Thank you so much for taking the time to read this! Thank you, as well, for your very kind words; they are very much appreciated!

      I’m so glad that you gained some inspiration from this piece; believe me when I say that the honour is mine! I am so touched that I was able to help you out, and though I can’t guarantee it, I will certainly try my best to produce more pieces like this (how I even wrote this piece, I’ll never know). This might be a one-time thing, or it might not be, but no matter the case, I know I couldn’t have done this without your support and the support of the AP English class. Thank you.

      Ever yours,
      Jieo

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