Prayer is Overrated

Last Sunday a powerful storm ripped through Maine in the middle of the night and obliterated power for much of the state. I slept through the exciting part -- the gale force winds and torrential rains -- and woke up Monday morning to that eerily quiet condition commonly referred to as a "power outage," notable for the absence of humming from any and all appliances. A month ago I had a power outage of far more serious proportions for me personally in the form of a heart attack, but oddly enough the more recent one (involving my inability to check my email or make toast or watch Curb Your Enthusiasm, not to mention keep up with the latest terror attacks and political upsets) had a greater impact on both my mood and my daily life.

Exacerbating the situation was the fact that my husband was out of town for the entire event, leaving me literally alone in the dark, which around these parts begins to descend about 5:30 in the afternoon. An extra kick in the pants came from all the surrounding generators belonging to my storm-savvy neighbors, each accompanied by a relentless cacophony similar to an airplane taking off, adding up to five or six airplanes taking off. This noise went on day and night, making sleep all but impossible for those lacking generators and also lacking heat, unless you happen to have a fireplace in your bedroom which I do not. The noise also freaked out my cat, who refused to stay outside for more than a few minutes, but once back inside began meowing to go out since he has a pea brain and forgot why he was inside in the first place.

This throwback to prehistoric times lasted every minute of a full three days. Candles were lit, oil lamps were filled, tears were shed and curses were muttered. In between all that, a special prayer was dispensed to the Heavens: "Please God, turn the power on." I repeated my prayer incessantly and with gusto while shivering in the cold showers I endured to maintain the level of personal hygiene I have come to enjoy, and while emptying the fridge of rotting food that was starting to make itself known, and while struggling to make coffee with a rigged-up container and some old Chemex filters, having committed years ago to an electric coffee maker, a decision surely worth revisiting. All to no avail, since downed power lines and busted transformers apparently trumped my piddling prayers.

Finally, after hearing the plaintive quality bordering on hysteria in my voice on one of our few successful phone calls placed somewhere beyond the outage area, my husband cut short his business trip by one day to return home and help shoulder the burden of daily life without benefit of technology. Alas, Mitch was on the scene for perhaps three hours of daylight and 45 minutes of darkness when the power was restored. And the funny thing is, he hadn't even prayed for it.