Guest Column / Debra Tomaselli

Chance encounter leads to question on how we can pray

As I was leaving the hospital, I encountered a white-haired woman in a hallway. Our eyes met and she broke into a big smile.

“Do you remember me?”

I cocked my head.

Then, as she blurted her name, recognition flooded me.

“Maria!”

We hugged.

Yes, yes, Maria.

I hadn’t seen Maria in years.

She’d been the woman with the short, perfectly styled, brown hair. The woman who always wore classy outfits. The woman who attended our parish, taking her place by the altar to distribute Communion at daily Mass.

Yes, yes, Maria.

The woman who complained non-stop. The woman with the annoying husband. The woman with the grown, alcoholic son who moved in with the woman with a litany of daily struggles.

I remember.

“Pray for me,” she’d say.

It seemed more of a demand than a heartfelt request.

Maria was much older than me, and I never really saw her beyond those morning Mass encounters years ago.

But here she was—in the hospital hallway.

Her presence awakened my memory. “I don’t see you at church anymore,” I said.

“No, unfortunately not,” she said. “It’s too early for me now.” I nodded. They’d changed Mass times in recent years.

I hadn’t seen her in years, but, as we spoke, it was as if a day hadn’t passed.

She had white hair now, not brown. Still perfectly styled.

Maybe an added wrinkle or two, but the same big alert brown eyes.

Same height. Same weight. Same build.

Maria was always slim, and she still was.

Silence hung in the air while we looked at each other, delighted by the unexpected encounter.

Then Maria spoke.

“I’m 90!” she announced.

I roared in disbelief. “90? That can’t be!”

She smiled, nodding. She too was amazed.

“Yes, yes,” she said. “And watch …” She swooped one arm downward and the other behind her, looking like a windmill as her fingertips swept the shiny hospital floor.

“Whoa,” I said. “I can’t even do that. I wouldn’t be able to walk away from this conversation if I tried that.”

We both laughed.

She, too, appreciated her flexibility.

She chatted about her husband’s hospital stay, his declining health and his immobility.

Until recently, her story would have fallen on deaf ears. But now my husband and I have faced enough health struggles for me to understand their pain.

“How do you do it?” I asked. Maybe I was hoping for advice. Maybe for strength.

She grimaced. She shrugged.

I returned the gestures.

“But really,” I asked again. “How … how do you do it?”

Maria leaned in.

“Every morning when I get up,” she said, “I ask God to help me with the problems I’ll have that day.”

My head snapped to attention.

What? What kind of prayer is that? Don’t we usually pray God will eliminate our problems?

With that, the elevator doors opened, and we bid farewell.

While I may never see Maria again, I cherish our encounter and her simple disclosure.

And I just might change my prayer this morning. … Dear Lord, please help me with whatever problems come along today. Amen.
 

(Debra Tomaselli writes from Altamonte Springs, Florida. She can be reached at dtomaselli@cfl.rr.com.) †