All Posts Tagged ‘Prayer


I was in a pickle! (or the story of the Symphony Number 3)


Many years ago, I worked as an intern in a radio station making interviews and reporting about culture. I had to fill a space of three minutes with news about the music events in the city. One day I had prepared an interview with the conductor of an orchestra who was going to perform that evening the Brahms Symphony Number 3. But he failed me at the last moment. I was in a pickle! I had three minutes empty to fill with whatever.

I decided to search in the archive of the radio station the record of the Symphony and talk a little about it and about the orchestra, but the archive was very messy. Plus I have a kind of dyslexia, so instead of looking for the box with the label Brahms Symphony number 3, I was looking desperately for the label Symphony number 1.

The clock was ticking And I heard from the archive my boss on air saying: “…and in a few seconds our contributor Olga will tell us the lasts news about culture in our city”.

So I prayed with all my strength: dear God let me find the record! …And suddenly I saw it! The box with the label I was looking for: the Symphony Number 1.

I took it and went running to the studio, gave it to the technician and sit down next to my boss, ready to talk at the microphone. When I checked to my notes, I realized in dismay my mistake. But just then, the technician put on the record and the music that sounded was the Symphony number 3 . The one I needed. The record was inside the wrong box! . I had would never found it if I hadn’t made that mistake with the numbers.

I really think my prayers were heard that day.

Ragtag Daily Prompt: Pickle


Grieving Night

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Dad with his pupils at the university

Dad with his pupils at the university

I didn’t want to get out of that room. I wanted to stay by him till the end. I loved him so much! Every second was precious for me. But all the others decided that I was the suitable person to accompany my mother home to have some rest. I kissed him in the forehead, fearing it would be my last and said: wait for me, dad. He had no strength to talk nor open his blue eyes, but he managed to smile. I left the hospital heartbroken. So many remembrances kept in that faint smile, so acute pain in the soul thinking in the approaching farewell. Mom and I went home and she managed to sleep because she was exhausted. At two am I the phone awakened me.

– Come immediately, he is dying.
I got up in a rush and called mom to tell her the we had to go to the hospital. She began to dress up and comb her hair and apply her lipstick, because she wanted to be pretty for my father even in the last instant. I began to get nervous, because we didn’t have time to lose.
– Mom, hurry up, please.
Finally we went out. I drove to the hospital. My mom got out from the car at the door, to arrive as soon as possible, and I continued to find a parking lot. I ran back to the hospital hoping to find my dad alive and having the opportunity to tell him goodby.
He, who almost was executed during WWII, and once thought his body would disappear, and his love, my mom, would never know how much he loved her, was dying at old age, in her bed, surrounded by his wife and children and accompanied by a priest, friend of the family. Far away from his homeland, that’s true, but embraced by love.
When I arrived to the room, he was looking with his blue eyes to my mom, their hands clasped. He had trouble breathing and had an oxygen mask. But it was useless, so the doctor removed it. I asked the priest to pray something, but he was too moved to utter a word.
– Netter pray you something in Croatian, he told me.
I began to repeat the Lord’s prayer and the Hail Mary, my dad’s favourites.
Little by little dad faded looking at mom, his only love of 56 years. When he stopped breathing I stopped praying, the tears overwhelming my voice.  The sadness was tremendous. But my soul was invaded by an overwhelming peace. I kissed again his forehead and told him: thank you dad.

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Describe a memory or encounter in which you considered your faith, religion, spirituality — or lack of — for the first time.

From I can remember I’ve prayed to God with faith. But I can remember a day when I had my first real prayer. A moment when I felt I was really talking with God. And it wasn’t in a church or while saying my prayers at night at my room. It happened in the street. I was walking across the square towards our home  with my family. It was Sunday. We had been at Mass and we had gone to a café to have a breakfast all together. We had stopped in a kiosk to buy comics. We were having a funny conversation, with my father, as always, making jokes. Suddenly I began to talk with God thanking him for my family using my own words, asking him about what he wanted from me. I felt he was listening and answering to my question. It was only a few seconds. Enough to discover what real prayer was.

In Good Faith.




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A sanctuary is a place you can escape to, to catch your breath and remember who you are. Write about the place you go to when everything is a bit too much.

Today is one of those days when I would like to disappear, and get lost in a deserted beach, to have a long walk by myself. The nasty noises from the street and my neighbors are sounding amplified in my head, hammering my brain, and getting on my nerves. There is no way to focus on what I’m writing. But I have nowhere to hide. I’m trapped at home. I can’t leave. My mom cannot stay alone. I only can go out when my sister come to take turns with me. And then, I have so many things to do when I go out, that is not restful at all. My real sanctuary these days is the old gothic church, next block. I can enter when I want, enjoy the silence, the beauty of the architecture, admire the light filtering through the colors of the  magnificent stained glass rose windows, feel seven centuries of history in its walls, columns and arches, and discover the tiny red candle by the tabernacle, get close and have there a little prayer. These visits give me peace.




My parents


Your personal sculptor is carving a person, thing, or event from the last month of your life into the glistening marble of immortality. What’s the statue and what makes it so significant?

A personal sculptor? what an idea! Even you are extremely rich and pretentious to have one or you think something in your life is worth being immortalized. None of the above applies to me.

The last month of my life I have taken care of my mother. A remarkable, courageous, good, very old and sick woman. She had a very hard life plenty of adventures in her youth during the WWII and after that under communist prosecution. She had to struggle a lot to endure a forced separation from her husband for 12 years. She was faithful and they reunited. Then she raised a family with five children. That makes me think that if I really have to commission a sculpture would be one of my parents.

And why of my parents and not just my mother? Because the life of both my parents was impressive in the extraordinary and ordinary circumstances of their life. Because they loved each so much, they cannot be apart from each other a single day. When they were forcibly separated in their youth and they finally could establish some contact by clandestine mail my father propose to my mother to pray each day at the same hour the Rosary for each other. And they did. For all those years they knew each day they were at the same time praying together despite being physically separated. When they reunited they were able to live together without problems after such a long separation because of that union in prayer, they said.

After that, when they restarted the family life, they never separated again. They loved each other so much. They taught us to love. My dad passed away long time ago. My mom talk to him every day and hopes to meet him in heaven where there will be no more good byes and they will be together for the eternity.

It would be cruel to separate them in a statue. And besides, I miss see them together so much! This is why I would commission a statue of my parents, young and happy, waking together as they used to do.

Daily Prompt: Michelangelo’s YOU.
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