Last month, one of my parishes’ priests issued a challenge during his homily: pray more and more persistently. “If you think you are too busy to pray, you are too busy,” Father Matt advised us.

That week’s Gospel reading from Luke (11:1-13) retold the parable of the midnight visitor requesting loaves of bread from a friend and being rewarded after much persistence. The prospect of donated carbohydrates aside, I welcomed the challenge to increase my prayer time outside Mass and use my persistent nature in a positive way. I decided to resume praying the rosary more regularly. I resolved to follow the priest’s and my own advice.

But where can I pray? This simple question has no obvious answer in my daily life. I can’t concentrate in a doctor’s office waiting room; the large-screen HD television (purchased with my co-pays, I’m sure) blaring insipid reality shows eliminates any chance of contemplative prayer. Driving in central Jersey takes too much concentration to pray; I need every last brain cell and reflex to dodge my fellow motorists while accompanying my bass-pumping satellite radio with an air drums performance on the steering wheel. Attempting prayer during an average day at home also won’t work: the siren calls of the unanswered email within my computer and the Chocolate Cheerios in the kitchen cabinet drown out any thanks or entreaty to God. If by chance I find a quiet moment somewhere else, my cell phone will start to ring incessantly. Where can I pray??

I pondered the dilemma while cleaning my home office. Opening a little-used closet, I spied my Healthy-But-Hated-Guilt Box: a tote containing a rolled-up yoga mat, a sextet of hand weights, and VCR tapes starring a sequined-shorts-wearing, highly effusive man with a big perm and a pathological grin, all coated in a thin layer of dust.

At first, I couldn’t fathom how this array of torture devices could have come into my possession, but then I remembered: during a Tricky Tray fundraiser, I had tossed my last ticket into a basket and by God’s loving and humorous hand, I found myself the surprised and dismayed owner of a set of exercise equipment.

“Okay, God,” I groaned. “I’m always asking for some sign, and I guess this is a double-header. Message received: apparently it’s time for me to resume both my prayer life and my exercise routine.” Then the brainstorm (or maybe just a small brain squall) hit: why not multi-task and walk in the local park while holding hand weights and praying the rosary? It’s summer, so a walk in the local park should be a pleasant yet thoughtless diversion while praying.

The next evening I laced up my sneakers, blew the dust from the weights, grabbed the rosary and a water bottle, and drove to the next town to walk and pray myself back to wholeness.

Tossing my cell phone into the trunk to ensure solitude, I began my slow progress around the perimeter of the park. I gradually found a soothing rhythm in both pace and prayer, gauging my progress by which “Hail Mary” I recited as I passed an outdoor landmark. The repetitive laps served as benchmarks (or, rather, bead marks): I reached the baseball diamond at the first decade, the playground swings on the second, the boat launch at the third, the gazebo near the lake during the fourth, and the tennis courts at the fifth.  

Mindless circles led to spiritual peace, and I relished my nightly walks. After a few evenings on the same route, I began to notice others on a similar schedule. Bicyclists, dog walkers and even teenage basketball players soon began to nod at me in recognition as I walked past, and I could acknowledge their presence without breaking stride or prayer. Concentrating on the rosary was easy, for nothing of any importance seemed to be happening on my circular route, nothing much changed from lap to lap or night to night. Nothing broke my concentration at all… except on the fifth decade: the tennis courts.

Young Eric and his father played tennis each evening at the same time that I walked. Let me be more accurate: Eric and his father fought on the tennis courts each evening at the same time that I walked. The father and son were Asian and spoke a language I do not know, but they also spoke a universal language with which I am very familiar: the language of parent and child.

Each night, as I approached the fifth decade/tennis courts, I heard the same litany: the father would utter long sentences in a patient tone, each preceded by his son’s name, and pantomime various tennis skills. But young Eric would have no part of it. He stood flat-footed at the net, face depressed and racquet dragging the ground. “Dad,” he would whine, followed by a long phrase I imagined was “I’m tired!” or “I’m thirsty!” or “I’ve don’t want to do this any more!” Eric’s dad would sigh, patiently repeating the same phrases again: “Eric…….”

As I strode by this site lap after lap, night after night, this tableau interrupted my prayer. I’d grip the weights tightly in frustration, mentally scolding the older man. “Eric’s dad, give it up! This boy is never going to learn to play tennis,” I’d internally grumble. “Stop being so persistent!”  

Nightly, I would lose my temper and my place praying that fifth rosary decade and dread witnessing another evening’s battle between father and son. I could change parks or time of day to walk, true, but this place and time was most convenient to my schedule, so I stubbornly stuck to my routine. Each night I vowed to ignore the interplay and focus on my own prayer, only to be agitated once again.

Then it occurred to me: persistence!  Not only did that Gospel passage about the midnight visitor teach us to pray, it taught us HOW to pray: ceaselessly, lovingly, persistently.  

“If he does not get up to give the visitor the loaves because of their friendship, he will get up to give him whatever he needs because of his persistence. For everyone who asks, receives; and the one who seeks, finds; and to the one who knocks, the door will be opened... If you then, who are wicked, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will the Father in heaven give the Holy Spirit to those who ask him?" (Luke 11:1-13)

I decided to change my outlook and prayer. In spite of myself, over the ensuing weeks, I began to secretly look forward to the fifth decade, to the latest episode of “Eric and Dad.” I began to imagine myself the father’s secret ally and waited for the night when his persistence would come to fruition. Each night I was delighted that the older man had not relented but instead continued to give his son the good gifts of his time and patience while instructing him in the finer points of tennis. Before long, I gave up all pretense of praying the fifth decade near the tennis courts, and watched this slow-motion, loving-but-stern exchange between parent and child.

As the weeks progressed, and my gait became smoother and more assured, Eric’s tennis skills also improved. One night, the boy’s objections ceased and he began to smile as he returned his father’s volley a few times before the ball hit the net.

“Yes!” I exclaimed reflexively and fist-pumped in glee. Eric and his father glanced over at me; embarrassed, I pseudo-coughed then pretended to flex my arms with the weights to cover my meddlesome praise. Eric’s father slightly smiled, offered a quiet few words of encouragement to his son, then picked up yet another tennis ball to resume the lessons.

About a week later, when Eric finally won the volley against his father as I passed, I gave up all pretense of minding my own business. I looped the rosary over my wrist and the weights under my arms then spontaneously broke into applause. The two looked over and smiled at me, united in their joy.

That small victory occurred on a Friday; by the following Monday evening, Eric’s dad was ready in true loving, persistent manner: he had replaced the single can of three tennis balls with a mesh basket on legs containing about 20 bright green spheres! And two women, who I assumed were Eric’s mother and grandmother, sat courtside on a bench applauding the boy’s every shot. 

Just as the midnight visitor begging his friend for bread in the Gospel of Luke was ultimately rewarded, I watched Eric learn the value of familial support and improve his tennis skills through his father’s persistent good gifts of time and patience.

It hadn’t occurred to me that persistence works in both directions, but apparently God also likes to be persistent with those of us stubborn sheep. My nightly rosary walks have strengthened both my body and faith, and I too grow more confident and assured that my Father’s gentle persistence will lead me to greater rewards.

If I start to falter, perhaps I’ll approach Eric’s father for a few tennis, or life, lessons…