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Making
things happen - with integrity. A weekly CyberMemo designed to keep you on task. Monday August 6, 2001 Volume III Number 32 |
FOCUS - Public Prayer
I’m not sure I was thinking straight when my daughter and soon-to-be son-in-law asked me to pray the prayer of dedication in their wedding ceremony.
Praying in public, well, I’ve done it all my life.
I know some who would rather submit to a grotesque form of medieval torture than pray publicly, but that’s never been a problem for me. I’m quite aware that Jesus himself addressed the whole issue of public prayer. It was his view that some get just a bit too much satisfaction out of open visible displays of religiosity and that it may well be an empty substitute for authentic personal piety. I think he knew the power of public posturing, and exploiting others with a potent claim to possess insider information shared with the Almighty, and then directing the masses to do one’s own bidding. Some offer impressive public prayers simply to bask in the glow of admiration that comes from an adoring crowd impressed with the vibrant use of language, and the big all-powerful familiar phrases and rich inflection and timing and cadence that inspires the herd, working them up into a frenzy that then turns them into putty. Jesus had a problem with some of those guys, and he let them know it. I guess I do, too. So, I’ve always been a little sensitive to the notion that public prayer can be monumentally hypocritical and manipulative and one ought to be careful to offer prayers that come from the heart, not from a script or a personal agenda.
But sometimes it’s hard to sort out motives.
I was honored to hear that in their planning conference with our pastor, the bride and groom thought it fitting for me, the Father of the Bride (FOB) to make my way up to the center of the platform in the company of all of our friends and extended family to take the microphone and lead the congregation in a prayer of blessing for these two teary, trembling people at this milestone moment they’ve dreamed of probably all of their lives, so completely in love, so entirely possessed by their affection for one another, so radiantly happy, and say the right thing.
It was a tall order, no doubt. But after all these years, I’m realizing that I tend to have an inflated view of my own capabilities.
I told them I would.
And then just figured I’d do fine. No problem.
* * * * * * *
I only suffered one bona-fide panic attack yesterday, our daughter’s wedding day, which I suppose, is a cause for thanks. It wasn’t during the prayer.
It was a parking snafu.
The entrance to the wonderful garden where we celebrated the wedding with a lovely reception, the owner-designer-creator calls The Grand Concourse. Guests enter through a wrought iron gate, into the gardens along two rows of pepper trees to the drop off point at the Pavilion. Because the property is located in a residential community, zoned agricultural, the owner is careful to do all he can to avoid a disruption to this quiet country setting out of pure respect for his neighbors.
So we carefully choreographed the arrival of over a hundred cars on that Saturday afternoon. We posted large signs to eliminate confusion. We recruited a team, a parking crew, to be ready to greet our guests and direct them to the proper parking area. We requested that there be none of the traditional horn blowing that often accompanies the arrival of newlyweds. We distributed detailed maps, complete with text and graphics.
A monster motor-home waited at the church door, generator purring away. As the recessional music began, and the line up of beautiful young people formally dressed made their way down the aisle to the enthusiastic applause of the congregation, the violin and concert piano playing “Ode to Joy” our good friends outside had the door open, the air conditioner blowing full blast with chilled Martinelli’s waiting, and the wedding party hugged and celebrated the moment in the classically appointed interior of the coach. Carolyn and I followed. And then they gave me an assignment… find our other son-in-law Ben and invite him to join the wedding VIPs for the ride to the reception.
The coach was scheduled to arrive at the Gardens first. The driver would deliver the wedding party for pictures at the walking bridge over the pond in the Pan-Asian gardens. This would signal the parking crew to prepare for the onset of cars, and jump into action.
That was the plan.
I turned from the coach, on assignment to find Ben, and met the congregation head on, now exiting the Sanctuary. I love these people. They all brightened, and reached out to greet me, the FOB. The hugs began, and I new I would never, ever get to Ben. So I bailed. I needed to get to my car, and up the hill to the Gardens. Post haste. Ben would have to miss his ride in the Motor Home. I smiled, and waved, and backed out the double door into the side bushes around the back to my car. On that afternoon in the valley, on a bright, clear, sunny Southern California day, the temperature was approaching on hundred degrees.
I wore a black tuxedo and vest. The starched neck, a little too snug.
When I jumped into the driver’s seat, I was in trouble. The car could have been used to bake the wedding cake. A virtual kiln. I fired up the air, and rolled out of my space to make my exit. That’s when the sweat first appeared on my forehead.
I pulled around from the back of the church, and that’s when I saw it. The Motor Home, over forty feet long, was stuck. The parking lot was so jammed the driver could not make the turn back to the highway.
I sat. And the sweat proliferated. My air conditioner needs freon. Put it on the list.
By the time someone found the two car owners required to move their vehicles to make room for the coach to exit, most everyone was in their car and in line behind the coach to join it in procession up the hill to the reception. It’s a long climb out of the valley and up the grade, and as powerful as the diesel motor is, the loaded down coach slowed and lumbered in the ascent, and the line lengthened looking to me like a mile-long funeral procession. But this was a wedding. The only thing dying was my well-laid plan.
It’s about six or seven miles to the Gardens, and as we drove through the neighborhood, winding out way to the entrance, I could see the neighbors in front of their houses, shaking their heads in disgust at this Urban-like intrusion, this invasion of sparkling, made-for-the-interstate autos in metallic shades of green and blue and maroon, windows rolled up and occupants in formal attire, and me in my tux (by now the air kicked in and my forehead was dry) nodding like the country boy I’ve become, but getting no smiles or nods or waves in return. They only see bumper to bumper in town. Not here. Not on these back-country roads.
I was about six cars behind the motorhome carrying my daughter the bride, my new son-in-law, my wife and all their friends. I doubted that they were even close to any semblance of awareness of the crisis brewing behind them. And that’s I suppose, how it should be.
The coach made it’s way through the Iron Gate and past the signs I’d enlarged at Kinkos. “WELCOME GUESTS.” “NO PARKING, PLEASE.” “GUEST DROP OFF.” “RESTROOMS.” They looked good as we crawled through the gates on to The Grand Concourse. The motor home stopped. I searched for my crew. In vain.
That’s when the panic attack hit.
I looked in my rear view mirror. Cars lined up behind me as far as I could see. Stopped. I ran outside, up and down the line. No sign of the point man who told me just two days prior, “don’t worry about a thing. I’ve got it covered, Ken.”
I learned later why it was that the motor home stopped and stayed in the middle of the Grand Concourse for what seemed to me an eternity, holding up the line of traffic in the heat. And the neighbors wagging their heads in dismay. As I ran, looking for my main guy, all the anxiety that builds in a man who spends months preparing and planning taking on the dizzying array of details and crews and colors and menus and itineraries, well, it all came to the surface like Mount Vesuvius of old, and the sweat now softened the starch, and I knew my hair would go flat.
I also learned later why my parking guy was absent. Turns out he was half way down the hill, stuck in our line of traffic. An oversight with the catering crew sent him on a panicky last minute errand to the market, which in our part of the world is a half-our drive. Each way.
The owner found me racing up and down the line looking like a man submerged, tangled in a line, flailing, desperate for the surface. Needing air. He was sweating, too. “I THOUGHT YOU HAD A PARKING CREW.” I smiled, faintly. “WHERE ARE THEY?”
I don’t know, I said.
And the motor home. Stopped. Blocking traffic. Most everyone oblivious to the line of cars winding its way at a standstill through the countryside. Everyone, that is, except the owner the Gardens and me.
There was, I now know, yet another crisis brewing inside the air-conditioned comfort of that beautiful coach. A crisis of which I was, at the time, wholly unaware.
You’ve probably wondered how astronauts, who cannot change their outfits in space, take care of personal business during those extended periods of space flight. It’s a simple curiosity. And NASA subcontracts an entire team of engineers and other specialists to be sure that the sanitation base is covered. Elimination and disposal are carefully thought through.
You may never have even for a minute considered the needs of a bride stuck in a massive white gown for a succession of hours drinking Martinellis and cold water and other liquids all the while with no apparent or convenient means of relief.
Our daughter was perhaps the most radiant bride I have ever seen. Right up there with her sister (just two years ago). And her mother (thirty-two years ago). But I, FOB, running up and down the line of stalled cars in the Grand Concourse behind the massive motor home under the scrutiny of the owner (a former Marine) in search of a parking crew, hair going flat, starch going soft, never for a moment considered the personal needs of my glowing daughter who was at the time preparing for yet another round of photographs in the garden.
But the driver of the coach did.
He ushered the scrubbed and shiny wedding party out the door onto the gravel of the Grand Concourse and instructed them all to wait patiently while our little girl, with the help of her mother, took just a moment to care for one of life’s little necessities right there in the tight quarters of the on-board lavatory.
* * * * * * *
Pastor
Bill approached the bride and groom, who, to the strains of a moving musical
piece beautifully sung about “This Day” lit a unity candle, shared
communion at the kneeling bench and now stood looking into each other’s wet
eyes, smiling nervously as the entire congregation entered into the magical
moment when a marriage is born and God is present and joy is real.
They held hands as two spirits merged into one.
Bill announced, “And now, Ken, the Father of the Bride, will come and lead us in a prayer of dedication.” He looked at me, and nodded. My cue.
Carolyn squeezed my hand. From the front row, I stood, and climbed the stair. I turned and looked at Candy. She was incredibly beautiful. And Jamie. Tall. Assured. Smiling back at me, like he’s grateful for the role I played in bringing this amazing young woman into the world. And then, I looked at my friend, Bill, hoping somehow that his knowing smile would give me whatever it is I would need to proceed.
And I, with too many years’ experience at the microphone, before the hushed crowd, surrounded by the people I love the most, in the sight of God Himself, with a heart bursting with emotion, I, well, I choked.
I took a long, deep inhale then a slow exhale.
Somehow, I got the words out. It was a miracle right up there with the parting of the Red Sea. Or the day the earth stood still. I muttered something about how incredibly good are God’s gifts. How wonderful and remarkable is his presence. How powerful family and friendship and hopes and dreams can be. Something about these two people. How very proud I am of the man holding my daughter’s hand. And then, I tried to speak of Candy, and I couldn’t. The only words that came out of my mouth were “my Ladybug.” And, “my brown eyed girl.” Why I said them, I will never know.
But my eyes were not entirely closed, and I could see Pastor Bill’s hand reaching for the lapel mike temporarily attached to my jacket. He knew I was in deep trouble. He prepared to rescue me. He was ready to finish the prayer I so feebly started. But I had something more I needed to say… and he waited long enough for me to get it in.
“One more thing, Lord,” I added. “And this, I confess, is a selfish prayer.” I took one last deep breath.
“In your time Lord… give them children.” I barely choked it out. And I heard the congregation openly sigh their collective affirmation and approval.
And then I smiled and said, “Amen.”
Amen.
* * * * * * *
It’s Monday morning. You are a leader.
The same God who poured out blessing over blessing all over our family this weekend is there for you, too. Let me say it straight. We didn’t get it because we deserve it. Or because we earned it. That’s not the way it works.
God is a good God. You just need eyes to see it. And ears to hear it. And a heart to feel it. That’s all.
If there is something blocking you from experiencing all this, there is a solution. Ask a few questions. You’ll find the answer.
The parking panic. It was so incredibly temporary. Within minutes, the motor home moved to the side, helpers jumped in, the cars moved on, and my good friend, the creator-owner of the Gardens, well, he smiled.
My forehead went dry. I fluffed up the hair on the sides of my head.
So I had one panic attack. And one joy attack. And I’ve only told you a small part of the story.
Crisis happens. So does joy.
Hang on for the latter.
It’s worth the wait.
© Copyright Kenneth E. Kemp 2001
Special Thanks to my good friend David Belcher, owner of Rhino Media Group and creator of WisdomGram
LeaderFOCUS is a service of Good Stewardship Associates
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