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Sunday journal

Bedtime stories and the power of life's blessings

By VALERIE BORDERS
Published February 6, 2005

When my children were tiny, I learned that I could bless them. That was a revelation to me. Because I believed only ordained ministers could bless someone, I'd never considered the idea. And if I did bless my children, would the blessing be effective?

After initial awkwardness, I put the blessing into practice. Every night after bedtime stories, my daughter and two sons tucked into bed, I'd make the sign of the cross on each child's forehead and say, "Bless you." Sometimes on a rushed evening, a child might call to me, "You forgot to bless me."

Like the stories, the blessing had become part of their bedtime ritual. Some nights I found the blessing difficult. I might trip on the clothes and books and soccer cleats strewn across my older son's room. By the time I reached his bed, I'd be in the mood to bless him out, but not to bless.

Or the younger son would use the blessing time to tell me, "I miss Daddy." His father died when he was 2 years old. Some nights I was convinced he was looking for sympathy, and I just couldn't dredge any up. I wished he had a father, too, one who could tell him to be quiet and go to sleep. But I needed to stay and listen and try to empathize.

Even though bedtime stories died a natural death, the blessing survived. Years later, during a visit home, my daughter asked for the nighttime blessing. Sometimes, as children left for college or long trips, I'd bless them on their way.

Two years ago, with my daughter-in-law's permission, I laid my hand on her swollen belly and blessed her and the little one within. Since she and my son lived in a distant state, I would not see them again until after the baby was born. Now I enjoy blessing that baby and my two grandsons.

Recently, my younger son, Sean, told me he'd blessed his little daughter, my namesake. He professes no formal religious affiliation. In blessing his daughter - and perhaps more in telling me - he conveyed the significance of the earlier blessings. We give our children so much, yet we neglect simple practices that say what we are about.

The opening ceremonies of the 2002 Winter Olympics included a blessing ritual. The state of Utah boasts five major American Indian tribes, indigenous people who survived the invaders' attempts at genocide. Representatives of these five tribes - from the smallest children to elders - performed tribal dances to the beat of native drums, a thrumming they liken to the heartbeat of Mother Earth. Next, an athlete from each continent stood before a tribal representative in full dress regalia, who bestowed a blessing in his American Indian language.

At Mass one Sunday, Father Joe, the old priest, told our congregation that he's one of six brothers and, while growing up, the six slept in one room, in two beds. Imagine the quarreling, pushing, shoving, kneeing, slapping, pinching, tickling. Yet Father Joe offered one memory: Each night their mother came into the room and blessed them. Calling each by name, she'd ask the angels to see him safe through the night.

Following my father's stroke six weeks ago, I spent countless hours at the hospital caring for him. At more than one point we believed that he would die. We endured two deathbed scenes with family gathered around. During those long days and interminable nights, I began to think of myself as his shaman, or guide to the underworld. In the wee hours of the morning, my dad and I had some bizarre conversations; I treasure the memory of them, though I would be hard-pressed to recall the content. A priest administered the Sacrament of the Sick, called in earlier times the Last Rites, or Extreme Unction. But as one who knew him well, had scrapped with him often, who loved and respected the man he was, I made the sign of the cross and placed my hand on his forehead, commending him to the gods.

The American Indians, in blessing Earth's diverse people, and Father Joe, in speaking about his beloved mother, reminded me of the ineffable power of blessing. In blessing my father, I was returning to him some of the love he had bestowed on me, particularly during those times I was difficult to love.

When my father made the decision to terminate treatment, his doctor arranged to have him sent home with hospice help. I thought he was going home to die, but the following day, the day he left for home, he ate gumbo! So much for guiding him into the underworld. At home he rejected the hospital bed, insisted on sleeping in bed with his wife. As I watch him heal - slowly, at 90 - I celebrate his wife's more potent medicine.

[Last modified February 3, 2005, 10:16:03]