The Perks of Being a Cuban.

Prayer

Robert Abud

Faber

Final: Part 1

In my experiences, I’ve noticed that prayer is a very important part of the Hispanic home. From very young, we are taught to revere, praise, and respect the Lord, because without him, we cannot be. My grandmother spends most of her day praying with her old, torn up and taped together prayer books. She is responsible for most of my early prayer life. The very first prayers I learned were in Spanish, “Angel de la guarda, dulce compañia, no me desampares ni de noche ni de dia.” Now that I know you know Spanish, I will not subject you to my bad translation. A child’s faith is much cuter and more simplistic than an adult’s. Christianity in children consists of guardian angels, Jesus hugging children, Jesus playing with sheep in a field, a literal belief in all the metaphorical stories in the Bible, and other cute representations of a very serious and complex religion. I must say I was very upset when I discovered the creation story was more symbolism than anything else. I still am a little, and deep down I still believe it happened.

As we grow, we realize that faith is a very complex, personal thing that we must learn to understand on our own. Each of us has faith in something, though I feel for those who have faith in absolutely nothing. My faith in God is very private, and the time I take to speak to Him is very introspective and personal. I used to love leading prayer in school, praying the Hail Mary at the top of my tiny little 8-year old lungs. As I grew to understand Jesus and the Bible a little better I began to pray on my own, privately. My prayers became serious, more personal.

I remember being very open and excited about my faith. I was an altar server from the third grade to the eighth, technically I still am one. I was the youngest in my parish, but Father Joe was very excited by my motivation. Father Fernando told me I’d make a good priest. (I still don’t think I have enough faith, courage or willpower to do so). I was very much in touch with my faith and with my parish.

I served every Sunday, sometimes twice a day. I was the only one who would get up early enough for the early-bird mass. We went to church with the sunrise, it was hard, but I liked the quiet. I enjoyed the lack of protocol, no singing, nothing extra, just good old fashioned prayer and Eucharist. I liked that at the early mass, every one was there for the right reason—to pray. No one was there to impress anyone, because no one worth impressing was up that early. Everyone there had a quiet and fervent reverence towards God, and I still think those early masses are the most effective and affective.

I loved being in charge of the book, because I felt important being able to read what the priest did along with him… I learned to read upside down. I liked the fancy lettering and how organized everything was. I sang loudly with all of my favorite songs, One Bread One Body, The Prayer of Saint Francis, We Are a Pilgrim People, Eagles Wings and so on. I responded loudly and tried so hard to extract some sort of lesson from Father Fernando’s horrifying Homilies.

His homilies never really taught much, they never gave much hope. They were not usually appropriate for a chipper family of 4 at 9:30 on a Sunday. Bright smiles on their faces, children climbing all over their backs, while being told that we are all hopeless, and we are all damned for eternity. Once, he decided to reprimand mothers who’ve had abortions while describing the actual procedure in horrific, gory detail. Children’s faces like pale stone, mouths agape; it was not a good day. He never had a way with words, but his homilies were better in Spanish. Maybe he just couldn’t express himself well enough, but at the Spanish masses, he always seemed to uplift the people. He had a wonderful grasp on the language that I continue to try to match. I live in Union City, a lower to middle class urban area with the second largest amount of Cubans in the United States. I remember one day, a hush fell over the often boisterous crowd. He made everyone think and made everyone nostalgic. “En donde sea que este su corazon, en Cuba, Miami, lo que sea, recuerde que Dios esta en todas partes, a todos lados, con todos nuestros seres humanos. Con los buenos, y hasta con los malos… ” All humans? Even Fidel? That’s insane, we thought. They looked confused, I was confused, finally a Homily that fulfilled its purpose.

It is presumptuous to expect to teach a lesson with each homily. What Father Fernando opted for instead was to make everyone think. Could there be good in the lowliest of humans? Could God be with Fidel, despite the fact that most of his family has abandoned him for the monster he became? Why do I have any right to judge? I’m as human as he is.

That day, I became more introspective, I understood my faith better. I began to think deeper about God and Catholicism, deeper than the cute religion taught in grammar school. I understood my humanity better, and my imperfections. I prayed harder, though I prayed faster. I prayed the Hail Mary less, opting for prayers of my own. I still pray the same prayers I did when I was 7.

In grammar school I ran to Sister Robert, excited that I had written my own prayer. “Good, lad, now you better not forget it!!” I still haven’t. Maybe because it means a lot to me, maybe because I was so afraid of Sister Robert.

Though by learning more about myself in terms of my faith, I began to pray faster and quickly. I began rushing through prayers and not really focusing on what I was saying or more importantly, who I was speaking to. This class helped me focus more on God in a time when I was sort of neglecting Him.

I stopped going to Mass a while ago. I thought I was a better Christian than them. I thought they went to mass for the wrong reasons. I still think one hour a week should not completely define my faith, as it does for many phony Christians. Some go six days sinning and giving into temptation, and believe an hour on Sunday guarantees salvation and redemption. The whole public angel private devil thing. But who am I to castigate or judge, I’m often no better. I went to Mass last week. It felt nice, it felt different. It was a communion, I really enjoyed the Homily. I enjoyed seeing these children believe wholeheartedly in the Lord, they haven’t been tested or tempted yet. I liked the Mass, it was soothing and comforting. Nothing’s been different since I’ve been gone, so maybe God didn’t miss me. I missed it though, and it took me a few years to realize. I’m really no better than the phony people I blamed for my absences. I have no room to judge. I’m still learning about my life as a pray-er. Hopefully I will continue to evolve, grow, learn, I pray that my hardheadedness won't get in my way.

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