I REMEMBER an old song of the 70s by Burt Bacharach. Its opening lyrics go: “Loneliness remembers / what happiness forgets / I have to lose you to recall…”
A love song, it’s supposed to evoke a romantic effect by eliciting a certain kind of nostalgia, a formula with a high degree of success, especially among the young. The heart gets crazy when it plays the longing and yearning game.
My friends, when we were that young yet and still foolish (well, even up to now, you judge), loved to sing it—I suppose with some flights to fantasyland. I for my part would sing it along with the original Dionne Warwick more for its catchy tune. But something else would come to my mind.
The song simply reminded me of how fascinated I was to be alone. That’s when I could study and reflect, doing some mental explorations that led me to many places and times, and introduced me to different characters and lifestyles. It truly broadened my outlook.
I don’t know whether that would qualify me to be what now is known as a nerd. But I really don’t mind it. Truth is I enjoyed it immensely and I felt I was really learning a lot. Besides, I had no problem in my relations with friends and others. I didn’t find any need to adjust to them. I was simply one of them, warts and all.
I also did not use this penchant to escape from some household chores and errands my father usually asked me to do. I was his clerk at that time and we had nice time together. To be honest, only a very few times did I say no to his requests. He took it well. He understood I was entitled to some of my adolescent moods and caprices.
When I went to college and was introduced to a priest for some regular confession and spiritual direction, I felt happy that I was encouraged to continue with my intimate personal musings. This time, though, he gave me some tips.
He taught me how to meditate and pray, making many acts of faith and going deep into spiritual and ascetical topics but always in the presence of God. Prayer is not just an intellectual exercise, he told me. It’s a heart-to-heart meeting with God. That’s what the priest made sure I managed to do.
He taught me how to prepare my prayer—what possible topics to consider, what intentions to pray for, what materials to bring with me, etc. We spent time together in the oratory—he reading some points from a book and me trying to figure out what to make out of them, but always aware I was in God’s presence.
Awkwardness was only for a while. A natural liking to it soon developed. I felt my personal musings rose to a higher level.
When I finally could do it on my own, I was surprised to discover many things. I worked on my dispositions for prayer, for working, for studying, for relating with others. I became more aware of my weaknesses and difficulties and tried to do something about them.
When I had problem with sincerity, I worked it out in my prayer. When I had trouble with sensuality, the same. When the allure of pride, vanity, self-righteousness, greed, and so on would captivate me, I had to go deep into prayer, alone with God, to fix it. I was convinced the cure usually started there.
When my faith wavered, when I could not understand the requirement of sacrifice, I just spent a few minutes in prayer, or in worse case, consulted my director, and then I would be out of the woods.
It became a continuing, daily affair, a kind of human need and sacred moment to be guarded and defended should anything tend to take me away from it. It gave me light, it gave me direction, it provided me with meaning in anything I got involved. I certainly did not like to be deprived of it.
Why am I saying all this? Well, I’m just hoping people realize how important it is for us to find time and place to be alone to be with God, and through God, with others. That what prayer does. It may be done alone, but it never is a lonely exercise. By definition, it brings us to others.
We have to debunk the myth that says prayer is useless.
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