A Prayer for Owen Meany

Author's Note: A topic in this book came up about how time seems to fly right by, and there is not a thing that we can do to stop it, so I guess this poem is just the expression of the thoughts that we all have thought sometime during our life, and that will continue to show up without our lifetime, leaving bittersweet afterthoughts. 

Ticking Tocking

In the house there is

Always a ticking tocking and a

Tocking ticking upon a moment of silence

That reminds us all of the fate that

Awaits us at the end of the hall where

The grandfather clock sits 

Lurks with it's hands forever circling in

A motion of never ending counting
                    onetwo
                         ticktock
                              threefour
                                   tocktick

It's face never revealing the

Slightest hint of emotion or hesitation to

Tell us the time tick tocking away faster

Each minute than the next almost like

His hands are trying to catch up for some 

Important date that seems to ever loom 

Closer and closer until it finally arrives and 

His hands begin... to slow down... 

Until... they stop... com...plete...ly.

Author's Note: This response is reflecting off of the quote that is involved in this piece that I thought really applied to life, and some of the things that we have been talking about since Life of Pi.


There are few jobs in life that we can be paid to do, but would offer to do for free, just for the love of completing this task. This is why it is so important to cherish these jobs for they may not always be available to us. In A Prayer for Owen Meany, Owen advises John wisely on the topic of John's future: being sent to Vietnam for the military -- something John is obviously not in favor of --  or continuing his teaching career as an in-depth and experienced reader, continuing to enjoy a lifestyle that he loves. Owen advises him, "IF YOU CARE ABOUT SOMETHING, YOU HAVE TO PROTECT IT -- IF YOU'RE LUCKY ENOUGH TO FIND A WAY OF LIFE YOU LOVE, YOU HAVE TO FIND THE COURAGE TO LIVE IT."'

I agree completely with Owen Meany. It is rare to come across something that you care about and you have loved be brought to you in such a way as John was presented. For Owen, the choice of John's future was simple, it was not even an option. Of course John should go with doing what he loves and enjoys -- protecting the way of life that he had come to know and love. Although, this was not as evident for John to see, because sometimes, it is our love that is blocking our vision. 

This was the case for John not only in deciding whether or not to go to war, but also in accepting that his best friend was leaving him to go to Vietnam himself. When we love something or someone, we do not our object of lover to be hurt or in pain, for this would also cause us pain. John loved Owen and his love was so overwhelming that it was deciding for John his thoughts and actions upon Owen's announcement of the Army. Like John and his books, Owen loved his country and the idea that he could be a hero, that he would be a hero and he was only doing exactly what John was -- finding the courage to live the way of life that he loved.

The Truth You Wanted, Or the Truth You're Given?

Author's note: In the book that I am reading, there are some things that the character who is telling the story is beginning to find out a about his mother who was killed, but they are not exactly what he had expected.


Everyone searches for truth in life, although sometimes, the truth that we discover is not what we had in mind. For John Wheelwright in A Prayer for Owen Meany this statement couldn't be any more true. When he was eleven years old, John's mother was killed by that fateful foul ball hit by his best friend, Owen Meany, leaving John with no clue as to who his biological father was and secrets no one would ever have guessed to have come from the prim and proper Tabitha Wheelwright. It was left up to John and Owen to discover the truth about his mother, and who his real father was, only sometimes -- the truth is better left a mystery.

We have all experienced that one Christmas, when things don't exactly feel the same; like there is something missing from the cheer that used to greet you underneath the Christmas tree. That feeling of something misplaced came from the emptiness of the secretive and mysterious ways of none other than Santa Clause.  That wonderful feeling of excitement and guessing just before you go to bed on Christmas Eve is what children live for, but then there is the one day when you find out that Santa is, in fact, not real. You feel betrayed by this, like your childhood was some kind of joke that you weren't allowed to be in on. Now that this is known, the fun of Christmas for a kid is almost taken away. You wish that it would have been kept a secret instead. 

Johnny feels the same way when he discovers that his mother turns out to be "The Lady in Red" -- a mysterious performer for a small dinner club in Boston. John of course feels cheated. How could his mother have kept this a secret from him? Why would she want to? She went through such desperate measures to keep it a secret -- telling lies to John that not even her husband knew about. Having found out that his mother lived a double life, he could only imagine who his real father could be. Just as surprisingly and sporadically, John's father revealed himself to be the stuttering priest from his childhood. John was disappointed. He had filled his mind with an image of his father that no one could have ever lived up to, and finding that his father was such a sorry, sorry man shattered this image. The truth that he was searching for was not the truth that he found, and the lies that his mother concealed from him -- from everyone -- left him feeling betrayed. Many times in life, the truth we desperately try to uncover is not at all the truth we hoped to find. 

The Lesson

It was raining when we ran out to the car that morning -- a light drizzle, just wetting the tops of our heads and our shoulders. I looked out to where the car's backseat door was open, revealing a blanket laid down upon the cushions and Rachel's wide eyes and tear stricken face.  I cringed at the sadness that rested upon her flushed cheeks, and it made a tear slip out of my eyes. She was only eleven, yet the sorrow and understanding  in her eyes seemed to be that of a much older person. It didn't belong in her eyes.

The sound of jingling brought my attention away from her face and back towards the house, where our black Labrador, Sam, slowly hobbled down the sidewalk. His mouth was open panting, even now in the cool spring rain. It was because of him that we were loading into the car this morning, or more it was because of the lymphoma that had taken over his body that my daughter's eyes were pained with the sadness of losing a life-long friend, a sadness she was much too young to take on yet.

The dog slowly made his way to the open car door, and painfully pulled his way onto the seat next to Rachel, who called softly for him and immediately shot out a comforting hand to pet his face. Even with tears clouding her eyes, she managed to smile as he settled down next to her and sank his aching body against her sweatshirt. It was that smile that made me realize how strong she was, how strong she always had been. Possibly how much stronger she was than me.  

I noticed the rain had picked up as we pulled into the parking lot of the vet's office with the sound of the rain hitting the windshield a steady beat, only to be interrupted by the soft sniffling that had filled the car on the ride there. We got out of the car, Rachel immediately grabbing Sam’s leash and prompting him out onto the wet pavement.  

Once inside, the smell of disinfectants mingled with wet dog and the stares of other pet owner's pitied us. I think that the reality of the situation hadn't hit us until we were standing here, now. So I stood, my hands hanging at my side -- useless for I knew I  could not protect my daughter from the sadness of that day -- so I hid them away in my pockets.

A woman behind the counter asked, “Are you here for...”, she paused and slid her finger down a paper on a clipboard until it slowed to a stop. Her eyes smile faltered and she glanced up at us quickly, then said, “Sam?”   

I tried to answer, but my voice caught in my throat. Rachel glanced at me, her eyes still filled with tears, and almost as though she knew that I could not answer, she stepped forward towards the counter and answered, “Yes, we are here for Sam.” Even with the tears, her voice rang out strong and clear.  

“I’m sorry we had to meet under these circumstances,” the lady behind the counter assured us, and then said that there was some paperwork that needed to be filled out before we proceeded into the exam room. Rachel took Sam’s leash and ushered him over to the wooden benches lining the walls of the waiting area. I expected her to sit down on the bench and pet Sam lovingly from there, but instead, she sat down on the floor next to him. Immediately he laid down next to her, his head on her lap.  

“It’s okay,” she reassured him -- and me -- resting her hand lightly on his head. She was more right than she knew.       


   

Filling out the paperwork seemed to take hours, but when we were finished and I looked down at my watch -- it had only been a matter of minutes since we had started it. I glanced over at Rachel, sitting with Sam on the floor smiling down at him, his tail wagging. It seemed as if this was any ordinary day, and not one that when we left this place we would not have Sam with us.

Mustering up as much courage as I could, I stood and walked to Rachel, explaining that the woman behind the counter would need to take Sam into the room, and that we were to stay out here in the waiting area. I was reaching into my purse to give her tissues and a magazine that I had brought along when:    

“No, I want to be in the room with him. No one deserves to die all alone.”

My hand paused in mid-air. I looked back down at her. She was staring at Sam, her small hands framing his face -- hers with tears slowly mapping their way down her rounded cheeks, steering close to each other, yet somehow, they managed to part ways at precisely the right moment to avoid crashing together. I stared unbelievably at my daughter, so young and innocent, yet she was much wiser and braver than I thought I could ever be.     

“Well. Are you sure you want to, honey?”    

“Absolutely.”  

So that was it. She stood and I took Sam’s leash, letting the tears flow freely then. We were almost to the room when I felt something touch my hand. Looking down I saw Rachel’s eyes, no longer filled with tears, looking back up at me. Those eyes, they no longer held pain, but instead, understanding of something much bigger than me and her both: death, and the inevitability of it, but also how it must take place for our world to work. It is from my daughter on that day that I learned this, and as we walked into the exam room, I felt her hand close around mine.       

A PRAYER FOR OWEN MEANY

     In this novel, John Irving writes a tragic scene in which John Wheelwright's mother is killed in a Little League game by a foul ball to her head in front of her son. Yet, while the scene is taking place, the reader cannot help but to laugh at ironically funny moments. For example, Owen Meany, the best friend of John as well as the smallest player and weakest hitter of the team is the batter behind the foul ball. When reading the scene, the reader will want to feel a sadness, or even an anger at the death of a young boy's mother, but the way that John Irving writes, the scene becomes something humorous. These humorous moments are in fact, just like life.

     The pain of others is something everyone can admit to laughing at in one point of their life. It is only human nature to see another person make the same mistakes as you and laugh. This is because humor is comforting and for one to know that they are not the only ones who have made these mistakes produces a feeling of comfort, and therefore, the laughing is engaged. To be able to write about such feelings of laughter in moments of despair is truly a talent, one in which John Irving displays brilliantly in this novel.