The Way We Should Be Callin’ on the Lord

 

The Way We Should Be Callin’ on the Lord

For the Men of the Sea and the Salt on Their Hands

How should we be prayin’, lads and lassies? I’ll tell ye straight. A Christian that doesn’t pray is like a boat with no oars, driftin’ wherever the tide drags her. We’re meant to be a whole fleet of prayin’ souls, not a scattered shoal lost in the fog. In the old days, when the world was blacker and rougher than a January gale off the Blaskets, the Christians were known by one thing above all, they prayed, and they prayed fierce and steady. That’s what marked them out from the rest. And it’s the same this very day. If your prayer is strong, your faith is strong. If your prayer is weak and lazy, your faith is the same, slack as a rope left too long in the rain. The measure of the man is the measure of how he bends the knee when no one’s watchin’.

Prayer isn’t some easy mutterin’ while you’re half thinkin’ of the nets or the price of diesel. It’s an art, like mendin’ a torn net proper so it won’t fail ye at sea. It takes grit. It takes stickin’ to it when you’d rather be anywhere else. You’ve to gather your mind in from wanderin’ the four winds, wash it clean of muck, and stand with a bit of respect before the Almighty. But look at the world now, noise day and night, engines roarin’, phones buzzin’, lads rushin’ like they’re chased by devils. The poor crater hasn’t a quiet minute to himself. They call it “progress,” but half the time it’s only distraction dressed up fancy. A man can cross an ocean quicker than ever, but he can’t sit still five minutes with God.

We’re fierce quick to ask for this and that, better weather, better money, a bit more luck, but we forget to ask for the heart that knows how to pray at all. We don’t even know what we should be askin’ for half the time. So we rattle off our words without thinkin’, like a fella shoutin’ into the wind, and then we wonder why nothing stirs in the soul. When you pray without mindin’ what you’re sayin’, you clip the wings of your own spirit. The soul wants to rise like a gull ridin’ the updraft over the cliffs, but you weigh it down with foolish chatter and restless wantin’.

Don’t be lettin’ badness grow wild inside ye like weeds in an untended field. A sickness doesn’t start in the bones; it starts in the head. Same with the soul. If you’re not watchin’ your thoughts, if you’re not keepin’ guard over the small things, that’s where the rot begins. So renew yourself while there’s still light in the day. Keep an eye on your own heart the way you’d watch the sky before headin’ out to sea. A wise fisherman reads the signs early. A wise Christian does the same with his soul.

Look at the “modern” man, ah sure, he’s time for work, time for the match, time for the pub, time for every bit of diversion under the sun, but ask him for ten quiet minutes with God and he’s suddenly the busiest man in Munster. And yet our grandfathers, God rest them, worked harder than we ever did. They rose in the dark, laboured till their backs were bent, but they kept their prayers as steady as the tide. However heavy the nets or cruel the weather, they had their rule, and they kept it. That’s why they had a strength about them no storm could steal.

And as for God’s silence, don’t be thinkin’ He’s gone because you can’t feel Him. The Lord isn’t a lighthouse flashin’ on demand. Sometimes He hides His hand, and you’re left in the mist, but that’s only so you’ll learn to trust Him deeper. When He does move, when His hand comes down on the soul like a calm after a raging squall, you’ll know it. It’ll shake you to the marrow. In those moments, don’t be babblin’. Keep quiet. Stand before Him. Let the heart bow low and let the prayer grow stronger in the stillness.

Here’s the grand truth of it, lads and lassies: God never forgets a single one of us. Not the old fisherman buried on a lonely headland. Not the poor soul no one speaks of anymore. The world forgets quick enough, but God doesn’t. Every man that ever hauled a net or wept in the dark is known to Him. That’s where the greatness of our life lies, we are seen.

And holiness? It’s not some fine coat you put on for Sunday Mass and hang up again. It’s the daily grind. It’s the small choices. It’s doin’ what’s right when no one would blame ye for doin’ wrong. It’s work, steady, honest labour of the soul. So rise each day and ask yourself what must be cut away and what must be strengthened. Kill the sin while it’s small. Feed the good while it’s tender. Do it all for the glory of God, and you’ll be standin’ firm when the last storm rolls in.