Many times, I have listened to someone share about the adventures or misadventures of their life, their losses, their challenges and dreams, and what they learned through their journey, and many ended with a prayer.  One such was an  Irish blessing that went like this: “May God grant you always, a sunbeam to warm you, a moonbeam to charm you, a sheltering Angel so nothing can harm you, laughter to cheer you, and whenever you pray, Heaven to hear you. 

     This got me to thinking about how many times I had prayed, and how much my prayers had changed over the years. When I was young, it was the prayer like Margaret’s prayer : God, Are you there?   This was the title of Judy Blume’s novel of an adolescent girl  navigating through the era of teenage hood, but a question common to those of us searching. 

     I had no proof that God existed, and wasn’t sure I wanted it. I had heard conflicting things about God, and knew few who had personal experiences with the Almighty. 

   Yet, as  time trudged on, there were many desperate prayers and pleas. I hid in the emotional foxholes of life, praying through failed relationships, LSD trips, and losing my innocence, in so many ways. I had no real church family I could be part of, no spiritual revelations, no one guiding me toward the light. God was a non-experience for most of my moments on earth.

Still,  I prayed. 

I”ll never forget one bad night. 

   I was just  a high school student. Mom and Dad housed their five teenagers in a high rise apartment on the 19th floor, near the University of Texas. I could walk to Austin High School  from where we lived. 

My sister and I decided to go to a block party one Saturday night. Shiva’s headband, a local psychedelic rock group, would be playing, and there would be lots of people (boys!) and  much  to heighten the enjoyment of the evening. I dressed in my hippy attire, Becky in her sorority clothes, we arrived on 22nd street.We parted ways, and  agreed to meet up later to go home. 

Mom and Dad were both out of town. I didn’t know where, Becky was the one who kept all those details. I didn’t care, either I was just ready to have some fun. 

Becky was the good girl. I knew about all she would do is find a cute boy, make out, and listen to the music. Afterwards, she would  find her little sister and make sure we got home. Becky didn’t drink, or do any illegal substances. 

    I ,on the other hand, was careless. I never really thought about the consequences, dangers or possibilities of hanging out with the wrong sorts, or of doing crazy things. I didn’t drink  either. I didn’t need to, I had my old friend MaryJane, and my other friends, Acid, Sunshine, and LSD. I didn’t distinguish much between who I was with or what I was doing. I just wanted to party, and was a little overly trusting, not really aware of the treacherous thoughts of the guys that were sure to be at this party, most of whom were way older than me. 

   The evening was promising, with a crowd of hippies and college students, Spencer playing on his fiddle, the cool air of the May night making dancing enjoyable. 

   But the stage was set for tragedy. 

Whoever organized the block party, failed to get permits. The street was not blocked off. That meant we had to leave traffic through, and the crowd in the street had to occasionally move to the curb to allow a car to pass. This shouldn’t have been a problem, but that night, 33 people, including myself, ended up in the hospital, because one driver, for reasons unknown, didn’t go through the street, he went straight through the crowd. A 19 year old student, for some insane reason, drove through the street slowly most of the way, then floor-boarded at the end, turned around and drove straight through the crowd at high speed.

  I’ll never forget that night. It started out as a good time. I had a hit of acid in my hand, was already little high, and was laughing as a prepared put the small square of LSD in my mouth, so I could go an acid trip, hallucinating the next few hours away. Anything could have happened to me in that condition,  but at that party, the acid got knocked out of my hand, and in a split second, I was beneath the moving car, staring at the wheel right next to my head.

    No words can describe the next few seconds, moments or hours ahead of me, but the first thing I did, in a gut reaction, was pray.

Oh God, please, somebody help me! 

I couldn’t move,I couldn’t escape, and I couldn’t think. 

But I could pray. God was listening.

I don’t know how I got out from under the car, but I remember laying on the cool grass, with a  young man sitting next to me. He calmly talked to me while I lay there bleeding, both legs hurt from being dragged twenty feet on the asphalt road. Someone came up to cover me with a blanket- to treat the shock I’m sure- but I screamed the moment the rough cloth hit my injured legs. It was removed quickly, and the young man took my hand to help calm me.

He was my angel that night,

Soon an ambulance arrived, and I was on my way to the emergency room, The attendants asked me lots of questions, trying to determine the extent of my injuries. I just started making up answers to get them to stop talking. Both feet were, I think sprained. I know it was  a long time before I could walk without assistance. 

You would think it couldn’t get worse, but it did, because along with the blood that had to be wiped off my legs, there was also gravel and dirt mixed in. No anesthesia could help here. Although the ER paramedic apologized for what he had to do, there was no help for it. I’m sure I passed out from the pain.

While I was still conscious, hospital staff asked me questions. 

Where are your parents? 

“I don’t know.” was my answer, “I think they are out of state.” Where was mu sister? my head screamed. 

Where? they pressed.

 “I don’t know, maybe New Mexico or Oklahoma.” I never knew these things. 

Who can we call? was the next query. 

I told them I arrived with my sister. I knew she would find me. She always took care of me. 

There weren’t any cell phones back then, so I don’t really know how they found her or how she found me, nor do I remember the trip home. 

    The weeks after, I slept in my parents’ bed so they could watch me. I couldn’t walk, so I had to be carried to the bathroom. There was an entourage of visitors, mainly mother’s friends. She was the fundraiser for the Democrats party, so Jim Hightower, Sissie Farenthold , and the Yarbaroughs were among the prominent political associates that paid homage to my unfortunate circumstances.  I didn’t really know them, or know what to say, and couldn’t understand their kindness and compassion for an injured young girl. I was shy, embarrassed, and naive. 

Eventually, I had to return to the hospital. I couldn’t stand up without fainting. I had lost too much blood, and too many fluids. The 3rd degree abrasions which left noticeable scars took their toll on me. I stayed in the hospital, where my high school friends would come by and eat the hospital lunch that  I never l touched. Becky would smuggle hamburgers in for me and chatter away to keep me entertained. Mom sat in the corner in a large lounge chair for hours, day and night. I said,

 “Mom don’t you want to go home? You must be bored sitting here al l day.”

 “No, I’m fine.” she aways replied. 

I was so bored and I failed 10th grade and later had to make it up over two summers. 

I also recall the day I had to go to court in my shortest skirt, so I could stand up and show everyone the evidence of harm done. Mother coached me on what to say. I was not interested in saying anything, and it was an uncomfortable moment when I  was asked  to show my leg to a bunch of strangers, following directions of the stern judge.

It took years for the scars to go away.The scars of my legs, which itched terribly. The scars of my drug days, leading me past oblivion and into darkness and shame. Scars of my childhood years, affected and afflicted with more bad memories than good. 

But many of these things brought me to my knees, and ultimately to the goodness of God. Like the Irish prayer, I began to get familiar with God’s smile, with his affirming love and power, with his protection and care, and his army of angels ( although many times, I only needed one) and with the immense impact of forgiveness, and peace. Peace given from God was more than the earthly peace I tried to find through the drugs, but the spiritual peace I found through a relationship with a God of goodness and mercy. It was all embracing, bringing about health, wealth, and healing on many dimensions, a spiritual friendship and serenity unmatched by the worldly relationships I had known. A  sense of well being was formed from a perfect kind of love, love which was born of such sacrifice and  a divine plan that no one could  fully comprehend or define. 

Prayer became for me not just a spiritual action, but a necessary tool against all that would be an obstacle to what I felt might be God’s purpose in my life. 

   I have learned also to pray for you.

 I believe God not only treasures and keeps our tears, but our prayers as well. Though I started out praying out of a desperate need, now I pray out of a hopeful desire, grateful that I know God is ever listening, ever present, ever loving. And it willever be so.