I pray, therefore I'm home

Ah, there’s nothing like coming back to work after two weeks off in the Caribbean, especially when you asked someone to help you while you were out and that person blew you off and left all the work for you to find when you turned on your computer.

There was just a crushing load of work waiting for me. I had forgotten about all my commitments to our professional organization’s conference committee, the fact that our giant spring career fair that I manage is coming up in about a month, that there were student appointments set up on my calendar, and the hundreds of emails that I actually had to open, read, act on and delete.

Whimper, and whine whine whine. I am finally feeling somewhat human now, though.

Curiously, I did not give any of this stuff a thought the whole time we were gone. My main problem was trying to figure out which way to turn when I stepped into the passageway on the ship. Do we want to eat? Gamble? Lay out in the sun? See a show? Go shopping? Decisions…decisions.

You know what else I didn’t do on the cruise? Pray. Oh, except for when we were afraid we were going to miss the ship, and the time they lost our luggage and that little “left the beach bag on the taxi" incident. Other than that, God didn’t hear a peep from me. If you go on vacation, does that mean you take a vacation from prayer?

One day we went into the dining room for breakfast, which we don’t usually do, but it’s a fun way to meet more people. We wound up sitting with a young married couple and the woman was wearing a t-shirt that said, “I pray—get used to it.” I thought that was kind of neat.

OK—maybe it wasn’t a complete spiritual hiatus. We did go to the nondenominational service on Sunday, conducted by an Army chaplain. He said he was going to do a “field service” like he does for soldiers in combat, which means it was short and to the point. Kathy, a reluctant participant, later said she was glad she went because she did get a little lift out of it.

On our last cruise, there happened to be a Catholic priest on board, so we were able to go to Mass as we sailed through the Panama Canal. The theater was jammed with people—very fun. This time there were very few worshippers. The Catholics certainly didn’t turn out, but then, neither did the “I pray—get used to it” girl. I think Catholics won’t go if it’s not a real Mass, like it doesn’t count.

The strange part is that I didn’t even realize I was taking a vacation from prayer until I got home and sat down to dinner and slid right into my grace and usual prayers for friends and our pastor and family members, petitions, thanksgiving, whatever is going on in our lives. Maybe it’s just that every vestige of my routine dropped away when I set foot on the ship. Prayer is part of that everyday schedule and so it was shed as well.

So what does this mean? Am I a terrible person? Is prayer just a routine and nothing special any more? Should I be concerned that I so easily forgot to talk to God?

Maybe it’s just that God needed a vacation from me.