Prayer Shawl

In 2007, several women began a prayer shawl ministry in my church in Guilderland, New York. The group meets twice a month to knit and crochet shawls that are then given to new mothers, brides-to-be, or someone moving away. Shawls are given especially to those in need of comfort and support during difficult times of stress related to health issues or family problems.

Before leaving for Peru, I received a beautiful rose colored shawl with a personal note of blessing signed, “With our prayers, HUPC Prayer Shawl Ministry.” And after arriving in Peru, it wasn’t long before I dug out the shawl from my overstuffed suitcase.

We arrived in the Lima airport past midnight and then immediately rushed to each of our host families. My taxi arrived at the end of a dark narrow alley, with rain spitting down from a starless sky. I entered my host family’s house through a bolted metal door and crept up a tunnel like staircase. I felt completely disoriented.

After a cup of tea with my gracious host mother, my senses adjusted somewhat to the strange environment. She then led me up to the third floor where I would be staying. And by third floor, I mean roof.

Hand-constructed by her father, the third floor was an example of the resourceful use of space in most dwellings in Peru. Three pod-like guest rooms made of cement with thick plastic roofing provide additional income for the family.

The open-air living space would be ideal now that summer has reached Lima. However, on my first night, I entered my sky loft with an overwhelming chill and uncertainty.

I knew, deeply, that I was exactly where I was meant to be. I just needed a bit of comfort, warmth and remembrance of those who care about me.

What saved me from loneliness that night was the soft yarn and warm color of my prayer shawl, like a crackling fire in my parents’ living room. Even more comforting was the knowledge that each stitch was made by a group of wonderful women who have found a meaningful and creative way to share G-d’s love.

Since arriving in Huánuco, I have not felt any of the chill I initially experienced on that first night in Lima. As I ran my fingers over the hand woven fabric remembering that night, I thought of a young woman I have met who may need the prayer-embedded shawl more than me.

This past weekend, my host sister and I visited a neighbor of ours, a young woman who I met back in December at the Christmas celebration for the TAMAR Collective. When I met her during the holidays she was eight months pregnant, very cheerful and wise beyond her years. At eighteen years old she is much more prepared for motherhood than others. However, I sensed that she too needed reassurance.

We arrived at her front door, a rusty garage pull-down, which her brother unlatched through a miniature trap door leading to their house. Our friend welcomed us with a beautiful wide grin and invited us in. We passed a bed sheet hanging on a string, a make-shift wall, and came upon her bed where her peaceful one and a half month old baby girl lay sleeping.

I felt distracted as my host sister and I stood chatting with her next to the bed, while she attentively nursed the baby. I imagined myself, if only briefly, in her position – crammed into a cluttered room that resembled a tool shed with three beds tucked behind a curtain. The absence of privacy was startling.

Her brother lay on the bottom bunk behind us, hidden by another hanging sheet, his sleepy breathing reminding me to keep my voice down.

Meanwhile, our friend began to recount her labor and delivery, running through every stage of the process in a somewhat stoic and detached manner. I thought of all the women I know who have shared their own stories at baby showers or over tea with their girlfriends and female relatives. I wondered if anyone had genuinely been interested in this young woman’s story.

Just listening to her made me feel that I was serving G-d somehow, offering her a chance to share her experience, like all new mothers want to.

But I’ve never heard a story like this – giving birth in a frigid hospital, enduring contractions in a waiting room filled with people without any change of clothes. Her mother wasn’t even allowed to accompany her, as it would provide “too much of a distraction.”

She had preeclampsia, a high blood pressure condition, and needed to be induced. No anesthesia. No hand-holding. No emotional support.

Her baby was born with the umbilical cord around her neck, but managed to make a loud and healthy scream when she took her first breath. Clearly a miracle.

Our friend shared her story without showing much sign of distress. Maybe she has blocked out the pain and loneliness she may have felt. Her experience seemed traumatic. However, my host sister later informed me that such treatment is nothing out of the ordinary.

Living just down the street, I am overwhelmed by how different our circumstances are. I visited her a Friday, my “free day” which I usually spend reading or listening to music in my private, uncluttered bedroom that has four solid walls and a real door.

While she appears to be a confidant and happy mother, her hopeful smile and knowledgeable eyes seem to call out for more opportunity, more choices in life.

And until those choices are available to her, in a real way, I hope this prayer shawl can provide the same peace and comfort for her as it has done for me.