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Pray Without Ceasing

Pray Without Ceasing
By Marilyn Mackenzie

I was blessed with having my grandmother live with my family until I was thirteen, and after that I visited her often in her apartment. We sat around her kitchen table sipping tea and eating cookies and discussing our Lord and our faith. Grandma was quite an influence on me, and I’ve written about it in "Grandma's Was a Simple Faith"

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But in the days of my childhood, depicted correctly on television by the Cleavers in Leave it to Beaver, or other TV families, there was another who influenced my spiritual life. Her name was Mrs. Lescoe, and she was our next door neighbor, and a Catholic.

Mrs. Lescoe welcomed me and my brother and sister any time we knocked on her door. She’d head straight for the pantry and come back with Ritz crackers for each of us. My brother and sister would scurry on their way, shouting their thank you's over their shoulder. They were, after all, only one and three years old. But I was a big girl, age seven, and I stayed to talk with Mrs. Lescoe, and followed her down the hallway towards whatever task she had left undone as she cheerfully greeted us. I loved the way she smelled, and would learn much later that her unique smell was none other than Noxema.

Often, Mrs. Lescoe would be in the midst of cleaning her bathroom, and I’d sit in the hallway, wanting to hear every bit of wisdom she’d impart. The words were often repeated, but I enjoyed them nevertheless. As she cleaned the bathtub, Mrs. Lescoe explained to me how important it was for a wife and mother to pray as she cleaned the bathroom, for it was usually one place where others would not follow her lest they be asked to help. A mom could pray for her entire family as she cleaned the bathroom, usually undisturbed. Poor Mrs. Lescoe. I disturbed her often, but she never seemed to mind. I’d bow my head as she prayed for her family and mine.

Sometimes, I’d catch Mrs. Lescoe in the midst of doing laundry. As she carefully folded each sheet and pillowcase and article of her family’s clothing, she’d explain that a wife and mother should pray for each individual as she folded their clothing or bed coverings. I’d bow my head as she prayed faithfully for her spouse and mother-in-law.

At other times, I’d catch Mrs. Lescoe stirring some bubbling soup on the stove. She’d explain the importance of a wife and mother praying as she lovingly prepared food for her family. I’d bow my head as she prayed.

Not often, but sometimes, I’d arrive to find Mrs. Lescoe actually sitting in her favorite rocker. If she didn’t have a sewing project in her hands, she’d have her rosary beads lying in her lap. They were beautiful beads, and I remember telling her I wanted rosary beads of my own. Mrs. Lescoe explained that one of the differences in her faith and mine was that I didn’t need the rosary beads to pray. She was the first to suggest that I use my own hand to remember to pray for family, friends, and government officials. And she pointed out that my little finger or pinkie represented me, and that my prayers for myself should be less frequent than prayers for others who were represented by my other fingers.

Just a few months ago, I remembered Mrs. Lescoe as I worked in the linen department of a department store. Rather than moan and groan when a load of towels arrived needing to be folded before being put on the shelves, I silently rejoiced. For there, in the midst of the store’s hustle and bustle, I was able to pray – for my family and friends and co-workers – as I quietly folded the towels.

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