The Great Conviction Iveren Evelyn Ayede   © Copyright 2023 by Iveren Evelyn Ayede

Photo courtesy of the author.

As kids, our place during Sunday masses was the gallery, where we had church wardens watching us. Occasionally, Baba Jagera would leave his duty as the toilet cleaner and come upstairs to complain about how someone had gone and messed up one of the toilets again. He had a long whip; a stick tied to an elastic material that he used to strike any child he assumed to be guilty, or anyone he found running about when he walked in. We never saw Baba Jagera coming, his footsteps were as light as a ghost's. Children avoided this old man who always looked tattered in his many layers of clothing, regardless of the weather.

Thanks to catechism classes, we discovered that during weekday masses, kids were allowed to sit down in the main church hall, and the best part was that we could sit in the front pews and on the very first benches, right before the altar. It was everything for us; to be seated with adults and up close, watching everything happening on the altar. It made me feel less of a child and more of a grown-up, it felt like a real experience.

After a few months, my brother started reciting the mass rites with the priests. He learned every word by heart. He never listened when I hushed him saying it was a sin to do that.

Another reason was that we got few minutes to run around the premises if we came early. We would go into the sisters' convent, pluck flowers and leave them at the grotto of Mother Mary. We weren't tall enough to put them in her open palms like other people did, so we dropped them at her feet and asked her to tell the sisters to bring the flowers up to her. We would return two days later and the flowers would be gone. We would be excited, knowing the flowers got to her in heaven. We would never imagine that they got swept away.

If we were thirsty after classes, we would rush to the Fathers' house to drink from the water tanks, which we saw as a privilege. We loved these events so much we didn't need a reminder on Mondays, Wednesdays and Saturdays to finish our chores and rush of to church.

After an intense learning period of about eight months, Easter was by the corner. The then parish priest said that kids below ten years didn't really understand what they were about to commit to, and asked our teachers to retain us until the following year. Our hearts sank. Half of us in the class were around my age, but we had learned enough. We knew all the prayers and responses by heart in the exact words written in the catechism booklet, but it took the intercession of our teachers and some parents to convince Father Beba that we were indeed prepared to receive and understood to a reasonable extent, what the sacrament was all about. Yet, Father had insisted on testing us all individually to make sure. He asked us questions in random order; what did the Holy Eucharist represent, what was its significance and what did it mean to be in a state of grace so as to receive Christ's body worthily. He was satisfied after the confirmation examination, so we all dressed up in elegant white clothes made for the occasion and beamed with lighted candles in hand on Easter night for the vigil.

That was eighteen years ago. But fond memories like that remain indelible prints on one's mind, especially if it meant so much and came at a high cost.

One of the things that stuck with me from the teachings during that period was the meaning of prayer, something I would not fully understand until my own couple experiences.

In school we were taught that prayer is the "raising up of our minds and hearts to God", but Sir Felix in catechism class said that prayer meant talking to God. This was the definition that stuck even though it was until many years after that I would begin to understand what it meant to talk to God and how to do that. It was difficult to imagine God actually paying me attention, even more difficult to believe that even though I didn't see Him, He was with me and listening to me. I longed for conviction but didn't know how to get one.

*****

It is difficult to forget the things we learn by experiencing. The first thing I remember really talking to God about was my parents' marriage.

Things hadn't always been smooth between them, but around the time I was twelve they got worse and it was obvious their marriage was on the verge of collapse. They fought ever so often and disagreed on almost everything, even if it didn't matter. I was scared. Once, I heard my father say that he was better off without my mother. I knew that was a lie. I knew he didn't even want that. My mother was the glue that held us together, we would fall apart if she wasn't there. The threats continued and I grew more terrified by the thought of their divorce actually happening.

I didn't know what to do or who to talk to about this. I told my older bother to talk to our father since he was the oldest amongst us. He said he couldn't, what would he tell a grown man as stubborn as our father? Just the response I expected.

One night, I ran out of patience. My father had been complaining endlessly about something I thought was rather too insignificant for him to be going on about, in the manner he did. This wasn't what I spoke to him about though, but I conveyed my anger as a courageous confrontation. I told him it wasn't healthy that he never spoke to us in a calm way as other parents do, that he was too concerned about virtue to care about how we were actually doing, that we all needed the mother he was so threatening to let go...

I didn't realize how long I'd been talking till I was done.

*****

Away in a boarding house in the next town, I wrote my father a long letter, months later. In the letter I entreated him to be a kind father and husband. I told him that I believed we would be fine, but we needed to stay together.

This was when I realized that maybe my father would turn deaf ears again, and maybe it was time to find someone to talk to, someone who would listen and help. I did a mental search of who this intercessor might be but found no one I could trust to succeed. That was when God came to mind.

God was my last resort, but somehow He was also my only hope. For days, every night I would tell God to bring my parents back together. My need was dire and so my messages were always desperate. I told him my siblings and I will not survive living with just my father and that He had to find a way to avoid that.

I think God agreed with me that we needed my mum, so He did something about it. Whatever it was that He did, it worked because, that term unlike any other time, both my parents visited me and we had a good time. I didn't notice any arguments when I spent three weeks at home during the vacation either. Months and years have gone by and my parents are still together, building a friendship and having meaningful conversations instead of heated arguments. This was my first experience with answered prayers and it convinced me that God can do things that are beyond human capacity.

During my final year in junior secondary school, our Christian Religious Studies teacher, Mr Tyav made us invite the Holy Spirit by singing the first verse of an invitatory hymn before every class.

One after the other, in our sitting order, we'd lead the class to chant the song. He made sure we used our most enchanting voices because "the Holy Spirit won't be moved if we don't sing well". So, each time he entered the class, we'd clear our throats and give our best shot as a heavenly choir, keeping our pitches and keys in check as we sang: Come Holy Ghost, creator come/ From thy bright heavenly throne/ Come take possession of our souls/ And make them all thine own. I always felt like something happened while we sang. It felt real, like we really did "make God come down to our class and help us understand the Bible better". Mr. Tyav made anything seem possible. He had that effect.

I remember writing a song that year; a five line verse. It's the first time I ever wrote anything at all. Sadly, I do not remember it now.

*****

With unfolding events that required me to seek God's help, mostly desperately, I started getting a hold of the reality and effect of prayer. It was then I actually understood that it had to be a direct interaction between me and God, like talking to a close friend. I began to feel like God responded when I spoke to him.

Much later I would learn again about how God answers prayers. But it took years to accept that with God, "answers" don't always come as approval, that sometimes God's answer is a definite "No" which could be devastating, or an "I have something else for you". Good thing is, something else is always better for us if we try to take God's perspective.

Prayer as "lifting up our hearts and minds to God" became clear to me.

I realized it didn't have to be words, it didn't matter the emotions or how guilty I felt, all I had to do was talk to him, in and about my anxieties or joy or dreams and hopes. All it took to get relief rested in my leaving it all to God.

It was okay to sigh, cry, laugh, smile, dance, kneel in worship, raise my hands or clap them, jump, stamp my feet, shut my eyes, wave my hands in the air. It was okay to be silent. I just had to connect with God, however I could and regardless of the situation or place. Honestly, this realization is one of the greatest blessings in my life. One that I do not take for granted.

I have learned that talking to God is effective when we raise our hearts and minds to Him. I understand that one can not entirely demystify God but one can come to embrace the mystery that He is, and the simplicity therein.

These days I do not imagine God only sitting on a high, magnificent throne miles away. I imagine God sitting down next to me, walking beside me, nodding His head and smiling as I tell Him about my day and plans and needs; as I remind Him for the hundredth time that I am grateful He loves me in spite of myself.