Sunday, July 24, 2011

Prayer Too

July 24

When the Answer to a Prayer Seems to be No

Last week, I was in the hospital for a few days. There, I had an interesting experience during a medical test. Some might say it was challenging.

I did not find it challenging. Frankly, it only occurred to me a couple of days afterward to think much about it. Right afterward , I was too pleased to be told I could go home.

The test was a tilt table test. I had no idea what it involved. I assumed there would be a table and, with me on it, it would be tilted. I imagined it would take a few moments.

My imagination was not up to par. When I was brought into the test area, there was indeed a table and I was instructed to lie down on it. Then I was--well, the word that comes to mind is “adhered”–I was adhered to the table by broad bands, which were then securely fixed. The broadness of the bands struck me as funny in a not-so-funny way. I inquired: Do you now administer a lethal injection? Look,. that’s how I react to anything that catches me off guard: I make a joke. But the fact is, the only time I had ever seen anyone held fast to a table with wide bands was on TV, when the next step was indeed lethal injection.

I was the only one who laughed–not a unique experience for me, but one which did not raise my comfort level.

I was told that the table (with me “adhered’ to it) would be tilted until I was upright. The test would take thirty minutes or a little longer, the technician said–a lot longer than I had imagined. Then the table was tilted to a standing position, and I set to praying. In front of me was a curtain with an unattractive print of regular, no-color circles. Time passed slowly. The technician and the cardiologist monitoring the test communicated with each other, but not with me. I said, It would be a good idea to paint smiley faces on the circles, to make them less boring to look at. I was told it would be good not to speak. I shut up.

And focused on my prayers, which no one but God would hear. I wanted God’s help to keep myself upright–which I’d figured out was the idea. The test. I repeated my favorite one-line prayer many times, and tried to visualize God behind me, holding me upright. As the minutes passed, my prayers seemed to be having some effect. .

Then, with only five minutes to go, a nitroglycerine tablet was put under my tongue. My mouth was dry–not from any degree of fear–by then I thought I had the test aced–but because I was thirsty. Being ridiculously honest, I reported that the tablet was not dissolving, and asked if I should suck it. Yes, they said. I sucked it. Whereupon I felt slightly lightheaded or maybe a little dizzy–am not good at telling them apart They asked how I felt, and I was trying to figure out which it was.

Next thing I knew I was un-tilted, supine again, and both the technician and cardiologist were very busy bringing me back. From pretty far.

When I was deemed well enough for him to leave, the cardiologist, who had not laughed at my two jokes, said, You may not think this is funny. But thanks for fainting, that’s the only time this test is interesting. Or unfunny words to that effect. He also said I could still go home as scheduled–the words I wanted to hear..

Not much more than half an hour later, I was back in my room. And two hours later, I was home.

Did God flunk the test, too? Just after I sucked the nitroglycerine tablet, did God get bored and take a break? ? First, of all, it never occurred to me to test God. I just don’t have other language to use right now. So: I don’t think God flunked the test–or failed me. I think the real purpose of my prayers was answered. God wasn’t there to fiddle with the test. God’s purpose was to stop me from feeling all alone during the test. When the technician and the cardiologist were doing their thing, God was doing that.

Being with me. That’s what God does.

Monday, July 11, 2011

Why I Believe God is Nobody's God.

July 11

I called my spiritual memoir Nobody’s God because it is an essential part of my personal faith that God doesn’t belong to any person or any religious denomination.

I’ve met many people who disagree with me about this. I think numerous denominations, especially those which are right of center theologically, teach that the path to God is narrow. It seems to me that the higher the toll on this road, the more invested its adherents are in its being the “right” path. They argue passionately for their position. I find their passion admirable if a bit frightening, but too. . well, narrow.

The road to God I see is wide. What’s more, it has not one but many divergences, some well-traveled, others less. But my experience of God (which is of course limited to my experience of God) tells me that most if not all those byways lead to God. Moreover, if we could venture even briefly from our own path to another, we might find the paths to be more similar than dissimilar.

Know why I think that? Because I believe this: God wants us to reach Him–and Her. To get to that marvelous place where love goes both ways.

Monday, July 4, 2011

What's in a Name?

Names are a big deal. In Genesis, as God creates things, He names them. Indeed, naming them is critical: it is the final step in bringing them to life. I don’t like my name. More accurately, I avidly dislike it. Toby Stein a clunky, chunky name. It just sits there. Plain, homely, useless.

Except that if it were truly useless, I’d be happier. For both “Toby” and “Stein” are both vessels from which one can drink beer. And I was stuck with both. ?

The fact is, my parents named me Tybele (three syllables), which is the Yiddish diminutive of “dove”–a name with wings. However, an English name was required for the birth certificate, and so, at only a few days old, I became Toby.

Over the years, I tried to edge away from Toby by spelling my first name in numerous ways: Tiby when I was past toddler age, because that would signify I wasn’t a baby any more. When I was first published (in my college’s literary magazine), I elected to spell it Tybie, which was fancified Tiby, I guess. Years later, because close friends tended to shorten Toby to Tob, with a long “o,” I took to spelling it Tobe because that didn’t require an explanation.

If Toby wasn’t–or shouldn’t have been–my first name, Stein shouldn’t have been my surname. My father’s name was originally Ochs. It wasn’t changed by some guy on Ellis Island. My father never passed through Ellis Island. He sneaked across the Canadian border to find an older brother in Detroit. When he joined that brother’s jewelry business, it would have raised too many questions for the brothers to have different names, and my uncle Sam had (for some reason not only unknown but unimaginable to me) already changed his name from interesting Ochs to heavy-handed Stein.

When I got married, I grabbed my husband’s name in a tight embrace. Not only was Kilfoyle a lovely, a musical name (accent on the last syllable, please), but Toby Stein Kilfoyle was more than a name. It was a conversational gambit and I got a kick out of that.

And yet, and yet, one day in 1977, in an American courtroom, I asked to have Stein back as my legal name.

It was the day of my divorce proceedings. My first novel was in production, and when I excitedly told my editor that my divorce was actually about to take place, she informed me that my book jacket was about to go to press and I had thirty-six hours to decide what name I wanted on it–and on any other book I might write from then on. I did the sensible thing. I called my two closest friends to ask their advice: keep the lilting Kilfoyle or go back to Toby Stein? I don’t remember their advice; it turned out not to matter. Not once I heard my question: “I have to decide whether or not to take my name back.” My name.

That was the day I stopped hating it. Toby Stein: my exodus name.