Prayer in unexpected places

By Lauren Matthew

The Jewish State

I have a cousin I don't speak to very often. His name is Jimmy, and he lives in upstate New York. Jimmy is 27 years old, and he has never walked a single step. He probably never will. And he's bitter about it.

He was born with spina bifida, an extreme curvature of the spine (though I realize that's an oversimplification of the condition), and he's been in a wheelchair for our entire lives. Despite being the cousin closest in age to me, out of the entire Matthew clan, Jimmy has never had a conversation with me. Not once.

His mother, my aunt Phyllis, is the closest thing I've met to the toughest woman alive. Not only did she grow up with five brothers, but she's taken care of Jimmy--despite the fact that every year, doctors tell her he shouldn't still be alive.

Phyllis called me last year around this time, out of the blue, to offer me a place to stay if I needed it or wanted it.

"I hear Teddy's been giving you a hard time," she said. My father's siblings call him Teddy instead of Edward. "About religion."

At the time, he was. He was having a hard time with the choices I was making. She was right, and I told her that. Then she offered to take me in, and kasher her kitchen. I declined, but I've never forgotten the offer.

I called my aunt Tuesday night, and we were catching up. She asked me if I watch House. I told her yes, now and then, when I'm home. (According to the fictional Dr. Gregory House, arrogance must be earned. That, and everybody lies.)

"The kid they had on just now," my aunt said, laughing, "he could be Jimmy."

I'd watched the show, and actually, the same thought occurred to me. The "kid" on the show was a teenaged speed chess champion with a serious chip on his shoulder, and a superiority complex and mouth that were vicious. The show is what had put my aunt in my head to begin with, what had made me call.

Growing up, we all knew not to challenge Jimmy to any game. Tetris was his favorite. My father took him on once, and left the room swearing and cursing, while Jimmy was laughing. I remember not understanding why Jimmy was like that, until my mother explained something simple to me: he didn't have anything else to do. He couldn't get up, get out, play outside... those games, reading books at warp speed, those things were all he had. He got so good at video games that it was actually scary, and over the years, his personality got more and more abrasive.

I didn't say anything in response, but I heard Jimmy in the background. And the next thing that happened shocked me.

He got on the phone.

"I want to talk to Lauren," he said, voice rough and aggravated. Then he asked my aunt to get off the phone.

"Whoa boy," she said. "Be nice, Jim. She doesn't call that often."

"Are you a Jew yet?" he asked. No hello, no nothing.

I think I blinked in response. Stupid of me.

"Mom said you're converting."

I told him that was true, though I did have Jewish family on my mother's side.

"So?"

I've gotten good at explaining this stuff to my family. Very good. So good, in fact, that my brother-in-law, who used to pin me at every turn, now understands Shabbos and spent Mother's Day weekend asking me about the intricacies of the laws and why they exist. He even turned lights off and on for me, glad he could help. I gave Jimmy the full run-down, all my reasons that boil down to one: this is the right thing for me, this is what I believe.

He was quiet. And in my head, I was back to being 10 years old again, sitting on the floor of his room, next to his hospital bed with monitors hooked up, playing Super Mario Brothers and listening to Jimmy tell me how bad I was at the game. That was his earned arrogance.

"Did mom tell you I pray?"

I almost fell on the floor. No one in my family is particularly religious. No one attends church regularly, or has fish on Fridays. They wear crosses, yes, but that's where it ends. That'll teach me to assume anything.

I told Jimmy no, she didn't. Not that I could remember, anyway.

I remembered her telling me, last year, about Jimmy's most recent brush with death. He'd had to go to the hospital for something, I don't remember what, and they'd hooked him up to an i.v. with a latex bag. My aunt ripped the i.v. out, asking if they were trying to kill her son. I'm not sure if it's across the board with spina bifida patients, but many of them are seriously allergic to latex. She told me during that conversation that she prayed that night, because every now and then she gets to a point where she doesn't think she can do things on her own anymore.

I told her she's never on her own. But Jimmy? Praying?

"Christian does, too," Jimmy said. Christian is his brother, and one of the sweetest people alive.

"Really?"

"Yeah. Christian prays for me, and I pray for better games of WarCraft."

I shook my head. At least he wasn't laying into my lifestyle, I thought. "Can you put your mom back on for a second?"

He did. We chatted a little more, about my parents (mostly about my mom's health) and my sister and how they're doing. I brought up what he'd said about prayer, and better video games. Phyllis was amused, and then she made a "tsk" noise at him from across the room.

"Jimmy, you're a jerk," she told him. "Don't lie to your cousin." Then she sighed, explaining. "He's afraid you'll figure out he thinks like you do," she said. "That he's not made of stone, like he likes everyone to think. He prays. He does. Rosary and everything. He prays for me," she said. "I've heard him. He prays for me not to be in pain anymore because of him."

I smiled. "There are worse things," I told her.

Lauren Matthew is the editor of The Jewish State