This was a memoir written for my AP Lit and Comp. I love it. I hope you do too.

The Prayer Mechanism

“The greatest weakness of all is the great fear of appearing weak”

-Jacques Benigne Bossuel

I prop my back up against the wall, grinning as one of the characters from The Maze of Bones makes a sarcastic comment. I laugh softly, not because I'm afraid of being heard but from the natural inclination to be quiet in the night. The loud wush of the fan creates white noise that usually helps me sleep. This, coupled with the fact that my parents' bedroom is at the end of the hall, means that the chances of being heard are slim if at all probable.
I rub my left ear and flip the page, coming to the end of the chapter. I yawn, feeling the exhaustion roll over me in a wave. There's no need to get up tomorrow, but I should probably go to sleep, I think as I roll out of bed and come to my feet flicking the switch on my lamp. The disappearance of the light leaves my vision impaired as I struggle to find my blankets and snuggle underneath with my feet peeking out on the other side. I smile and settle down glancing at the light-shadows playing off the walls. I rub my left ear again, grimacing. It has pressure built up that isn't normally there. Weird, I don't remember it bothering me earlier, I think as I attempt to pop the air bubble by yawning. I watch the shadows in the corner go from lighter shades to darker. I wonder what causes that to happen. I focus and then unfocus causing the shadows to shift shades. That's neat, I'll have to figure out why tomorrow. I roll over and attempt to fall asleep again but to no avail. The light shifts as a car passes by in the street, the sound of the tires flying along the gravel streets. I roll over. And roll over again. And again. Well, you get the picture. Why can't I fall asleep! I frown and my hand escapes from the blankets reaching for my ear. The weird compression on my eardrums is still there. I've finally given up on any hope of sleeping, so I crank the knob of the lamp back on and snatch up my book to do some reading. Another half an hour falls away from the clock, I’m struggling to focus on the book in my hands. I catch myself reading lines and realizing two minutes later that I’ve stopped reading. I shut the book. My ear is really starting to get annoying, it feels sort of like a sound blocking headphone has been shoved too far into my ear. I try twisting my finger inside my ear, but to no avail. I eventually give up and bury my face into my pillow in discontentment.
“Neh.” I vocalize my muffled feelings into the pillow. I toss and turn again, flipping my pillow to keep the cold side up. My body is weak, but my mind remains active, thoughts bouncing around my head. After many restless movements, I slowly feel myself drifting off into oblivion...
…Only to wake up in pain. Pain, echoes my only thought. Pain, pain, pain. I struggle to bring myself upward, clutching at my left ear. It pulses with the beat of a thousand African drums, the drummers trampling all over my ear, sending literal waves of agony. I rise from my bed, still grabbing at my ear, staggering at first from the rush of blood. Darkness overcomes my vision, I hold on to the railing of my bunk beds and wait for the pain and temporary weakness to subside. God, help me out here.

As I wait patiently for the blackness to diminish, my mind jumps back to one day when I was walking in the upstairs hallway. I remember waking up, heading toward the hall, and as I stepped out into it, having absolutely no control over my body. My mind was all there. It had complete awareness; every aspect of my brain was probably screaming out for my body to stop itself. I had no control. As I watched my legs turned to jello, my body slowly collapsed in the clumsiest of manners. However, as frightening as that experience should have been, I remember having complete peace. A lot of thoughts and emotions can run through your head in only a matter of seconds. This is what I was thinking:

I’m falling. I have absolutely no control over my destiny right now. I could very well fall and split my head open. I’m okay with that though. Weird. God, please protect me.

As the settled blackness dissipates from my vision, I regain control of my senses, minus the crippling pain of my ear. I walk into the hall and make my way over to the railing, heading down the steps to the bottom where, hopefully, relief awaits. As I make my way down the steps, my mind is catching up on my symptoms in a diagnostic. Ear infection, my mind has finally concluded.

Oh great, pain and weakness. Just what I always wanted, I respond. There was no doubt in my mind that it was an ear infection. I’ve always struggled with these irritating mongrels. When I was younger, I had an ear infection nearly every year. When I was only one year old, I experienced continuous ear infections. I simply couldn’t seem to be rid of them according to my family. I would lose one only to pick up another one. The doctor eventually diagnosed it as a sensitivity to milk. They put me on some anti-biotics, and I responded miraculously, defeating the ear infections.

There were only a couple of problems with that theory now. One, I can’t remember consuming any milk yesterday; besides, I’m not sensitive anymore. Two, I can’t remember any of the ear infections ever being this bad. All I remember is the pain being irritating. When I was around the age of seven, I went to the doctors' office after talking to my mom about my ear pain.

“Mom, my ear hurts,” I told her, pointing toward my ear. There was no hesitation. I was the renowned king of the ear infection.

“It’s probably an ear infection. I’ll call the doctor,” she replied, calmly reaching for the phone. That day it hadn’t seemed so bad, just another impediment to the road of fun and play-time.

This one is worse. Much worse.

I reach the bottom of the stairs and walk into the living room, plopping myself down onto the large rocking armchair. I wrap my arms around my head as if to shield myself from the pain. It isn’t working. I burrow into my own sorrow and pain, attempting to comfort myself in self pity. After about ten minutes, something comes to mind that I realize I should have thought of in the beginning. I instantly begin to pray, casting all my pain onto my savior. It starts out as a prayer for alleviation, seeing as pain is foremost at present...  but my mind begins to drift to other things. Any hesitation of where I should go in this torment is blasted out of the water. My weakness has driven me to the one source of comfort in a time like this.
I rise from my chair and begin to pace quietly across the room as I pray. I pray for my friends, for my family, for those whom I love, and for myself. My mind strays across the plateau currently known as “my life,” touching on things from the past, the present, and the future. My eyes wander the living room, touching the near and dear to my heart: the piano, the old chest filled with dishes, the coffee table inside of which many an Easter basket has been hidden, and the large picture of an eagle hanging on the wall. As I look at the chair, resting against the far wall near the windows, my mind recalls a very similar scene, where a person knelt in prayer in this very room.

That day was unforgettable. I remember traveling to my church’s homeschool program where they teach extra-curricular classes once a week. This month the class was about flight. A little known fact about me is that I do not like heights, regardless of the fact that I am around six feet tall. Yeah, I know, situational irony, right? You'd think that I would get used to heights... That day we were talking about Amelia Earhart, a pioneer of flight, the very first woman to fly solo across the Atlantic Ocean. My teacher was one Mrs. Heidengren, a mother of many children and a long standing Christian, as were all the teachers of the classes.

As we finished talking about Amelia, Mrs. Heidengren posed this question, “If you were in that plane and you died, as Amelia could very well have been killed, where would you go? Are you sure you would go to heaven? If you don’t know, I suggest you talk to your parents about it and ask Jesus into your heart.” I remember thinking about it the entire ride home and after dinner my dad sat reading a book in the armchair. I awkwardly approached him, his face set against the black of the darkened windows.

“Dad, will you help me ask Jesus into my heart?” I remember asking him. My dad looked up from what he was reading and set it off to the side. I remember him looking at me, his expression is fixed in my mind. What happened after this is a blur, but as far as I can remember it went something like this.

“Why do want to ask Jesus into your life, Stevie?” he asked. I then told him about the class and Mrs. Heidengren’s teaching.

“I’m afraid of what will happen to me when I die. I want to go to Jesus,” I told him.

“Okay, I want you to kneel down.” He made a gesture with his hand, and I obeyed his command.

“Alright, now I want you to repeat after me. Dear Jesus.” I repeated him. “I need you to save me from my sins. Would you please come into my heart? In Jesus name, Amen.”

“what I want and what I need

ha, I concede!
all I know is that my body aches
for something don't know what it takes "

-A blogger named Tinky

That moment, as seemingly small and insignificant as it appears, is what got me where I am now. I stumble a little bit as I step onto the carpet. My prayer broken for the moment, I begin to creep back up the stairs, when a thought occurs to me. I should ask Mom for some medicine. But as I reach for the door I remember what she said earlier that day. I remember her lamenting her lack of sleep this, or rather last now, morning. She had mentioned her inability to sleep, so I am wary of interrupting her. It’s not that I’m afraid of being yelled at. That’s not my mom. She will handle it with the same composure and benign attitude with which she will help any of her children in need. The problem is that once my mom wakes up, there is a teaspoon’s chance of her falling back asleep again. I freeze in front of the door, my hand resting at my side. I’m not sure what type of medicine to take, but I quickly realize, I don’t absolutely need medicine, and this is a chance to serve her. I grimace at the thought of enduring the pain for a few more hours, but I know I’ll be fine. It’s just another an opportunity to spend time in prayer.

I return to my room, where I lie in my bed again, contemplating the philosophy of life, death, and mankind. In other words, I’m too busy trying to minimize pain to bother with anything else. It doesn’t take me long to come to the conclusion that this is the worst possible avenue of therapy, and I console myself by returning my attention to the shifting shadows, shadows, playing on the walls, dancing creatures of the night that find their rest in the daylight. I lament the fact that my original intention to find out tomorrow, now means finding out today. I yawn, which annoys my eardrum, as my mind goes back to yet another childhood memory.

When I was younger, I had a certain level of fear of the dark. This was right after I had just gotten over sleeping with the light, something, I might note, I did for a very long time. My poor older brother. In any case, my mind had somehow created a monster from within the darkness. The creature didn’t have any distinct image; in fact, it wasn’t actually physical at all. When you look into the darkness, your mind sometimes convinces your eyes that the darkness swirls around. This is what I convinced myself was a monster. I knew for a fact that it was nothing, but my eyes kept playing tricks on me. I was a very rational small child most of the time. However, my emotions disagreed with my mind on a level that is fully irritating. I remember the fear that struck my heart when the darkness began to swirl. I remember feeling hatred for this unreal beast. I didn’t tell anyone about it, I knew it wasn’t real, I just waited. Over time, waiting is something that I have learned the value of.

I waited for the monster to disappear, which he did a short time later, I waited for my presents at Christmas, and now I’m waiting for the pain of the ear infection to go away. I wait for the pain to secede, but my patience is quickly tempered by the will to act. I stealthily make my way down the hallway and quickly creep down the stairs. I resume my pacing once more, my thoughts pinging around like a pin ball machine. Eventually, I decide I can’t continue with this pain and am desperately in need of sleep. I sneak my way back up the stairs and quietly walk to the end of the hall. Once again, when I get to the door, I freeze as my reasons for not waking my mother up reassert themselves. I open the door to my parents' bedroom a crack and half-heartedly whisper, “Mom?” I repeat myself four more times, then give up. My sympathy for my mom’s sleep is rapidly overtaking my desire to be freed from the pain. Well, I gave it a shot. I think, and make my descent yet again. As I tip-toe down the stairs, I look up to the left wall, where pictures of our family hang. We had mockingly named it, “The Wall of Shame.” The name actually originated from a turtle I had named Shane, and when I called it “The Wall of Shane,” someone had mistakenly heard me say, “The Wall of Shame.” I’m not sure how many people in my family actually know the story, or if they just think it’s a funny name and therefore adopted it without question.

Misunderstandings seem to form the world. One misunderstood word, one idea can change the world. For centuries we believed the world to be flat, it took us exploring and seeing it with our own eyes for us to believe otherwise. I am beginning to realize that I misunderstood my amount of control. I can feel the pain right now in my ear, and there is nothing I can do to avoid every kind of discomfort. I misunderstood what it meant to be saved when I was a child. To a certain degree, I believed that it was my decision to be saved, when in essence, it was only by the grace of God that I was saved. My control over my body, can be called pathetic at best. I watched myself fall apart out of the middle of nowhere. I had no control. I had no safety. I have absolutely no control over my destiny right now. My ear infections were just the beginning of a cycle of pain that I can’t control. My salvation was not mine to attain. It was God’s to give. The feeling of weakness and inadequacy that rushes over me is quickly replaced by another sensation. Gratitude. I’m young, really, really young, and I’ve just begun to see how little control I have over my life. That is a gift. I did not achieve it. I was given it.

My mind flicks back to reality. The pain isn’t quite as severe as before. I realize that my mental capabilities to focus are slowly returning. An idea pops in my head that I could have done earlier. I walk over to the computer and push the power button. My computer starts with its usual “vrrrm” and then the monitor pops off of standby. My face is bathed in the light of the monitor, as the computer slowly starts up. I watch as Windows XP crawls to a start, probably utilizing all of its 200 MB of startup speed. As soon as the login appears, I click my user and Windows slowly runs my startup programs.

I cuff my ear in an attempt to somehow cure the problem of my pain, and it fails miserably. Only I would think that hurting the place that’s hurting even more would solve the problem. It happens to me all the time. For example, after playing finger fencing, my hand is left almost entirely incapacitated and moving my fingers causes me small amounts of pain. My nature is to stick my face straight into the pain and attempt to cure it by pushing my finger back as far as I can. How I imagine this will solve the problem, don’t ask me. It’s my natural response to a situation of pain for some reason. I usually eventually give up when my logical side kicks and tells me to stop being a complete idiot. I then proceed to try again in ten minutes.

After my failure to solve the problem by cuffing my own ear, I decide perhaps I should wait for my computer to load. I click on Google Chrome and watch as my computer runs through the molasses that must assuredly be caked on the inside of the machine. Google Chrome finally appears, and I type into the search bar “How to Cure an Ear Infection.” Stunningly brilliant. It took me a good few hours to come up with this solution. What I find is far from what I actually need. There are plenty of fascinating homemade recipes to solve the problem that undoubtedly work but require way too much effort on my part. I read through these, reading up on things that I know I will probably never use. I know that the only thing I’ll probably remember from the web page is the word “honey,” but if nothing else, at least it’s a distraction.

As I scroll through the web-pages, I’m reminded of my gift with technology. Technology loves me, and that’s not much of an exaggeration. I have an aptitude for technology in a way that some people have the gift of drawing. My parents automatically default to asking me if there are any problems with the television, router, printers, computers, or Xbox 360. I’ve attempted to teach them how to use these things, in particular the Xbox, on their own. Yet, it never seems to fail that they have to ask for help to get it to work. The worst by far are printers. I’ve wasted so much time troubleshooting, messing with, and fixing printers. The devices are completely illogical. They defy all means of interpretation and absolutely refuse to work when you need them. This is without even beginning to dip into the scanner portion. I wouldn’t be surprised if I have nightmares where I’m forced to network printers for a living. Yet, when others give up, I continue the fight. It has come to the point where I know my printer inside out, and it's pretty much the same for any other piece of technology in the house. I have an aptitude for technology. However, like everything else in my life, it’s a gift. When I really need to be able to fix something, sometimes I just can’t do it. It’s the same for music. I can decide I want to sing really well right now, but I don’t always have control. In fact, there's not a situation in which I do have control.

I hear light footsteps on the stairs. Another evidence of my lack of control, I think to myself. The light footsteps couldn’t belong to anyone but my mother. When my dad walks around, you’d think a mountain giant was invading the house, which left my dog Rhodie, whose claws made clicking noises. I turn to my mom as she descends the steps. She’s wearing a white nightgown when she comes around the corner, making her appear almost ghostly in my night vision.

“Stevie, what are you doing up?” she asks me.

“I’m pretty sure I have an ear infection,” I tell her. She yawns and walks over toward the kitchen. The cabinets click as my mom rummages through, searching for, she tells me, benadryl. She eventually finds what she is looking for and pulls out a white pill and hands it to me.

“Swallow this. It’ll help you fall asleep,” shutting the cabinets with a “clack.” After we turn the lights off, we both travel upstairs back to bed. I pull the blankets over me once more, my ear still bothering me, but I can feel my drowsiness slowly beginning to take over. My last few minutes awake are spent in prayer, thanking him for the sleep that I can feel beginning to approach. Many nights it wouldn’t be this easy to pray, but now it's as simple and as vital as breathing air. When the drowsiness takes over, I gradually release my control on reality and feel my weak body entering into a dormant dream state as the lights start to fade out...

“Sitting in the dark, looking at the past
Praying that the peace you've given me will last”

-A blogger named SleepyJean.