My favorite prayer growing up was the Angelus. My family prayed the litany each evening at suppertime. I looked forward to the midpoint when we all bowed our heads like chickens scouting for bugs in the barnyard.
            Next came a line I didn’t understand: And the Word was made flesh and dwelt amongst us.
            Despite my inability to grasp its theology, I eventually memorized the Angelus, prodded on by Dad’s pat on my head each time I successfully led its recitation. Looking back, that “pat on the head” was proof that God’s love had indeed become flesh in our humble home.
            Such were the “things of earth” that drew me to "things of Heaven” in my early years: a holy water font on the wall outside my bedroom door, weaving palms into crosses during Lent, my mother lighting a blessed candle when storm clouds gathered in the west, naming pet lambs after favorite saints, my brother kicking my leg beneath the table as we prayed.
            A book entitled Remedies for Sorrow by Megan Nix contains a paragraph about the impact of movement and gestures in a child’s experience of prayer: 
 
            Some churches tout Christ as “the answer.” In my experience, Christ is more like a hand: hammering a nail in a workshop, saving a friend from drowning in a lake, flinging a whip at money grubbers in the Temple, clothing a naked man who howled in a cave, washing grit off dirty feet at the Last Supper.
            I recall entering a church one night to the sound of weeping. In the dim light, I discerned a woman embracing the crucifix, her hand caressing the pierced side of the carved corpus. I also recall the glint in the eyes of Hispanic children rocking an image of the Christ Child in a blanket in front of the altar on Christmas morning.
            Clearly, the elements of touch and movement complement the recitation of prayer. Why else would rosary beads--smooth as flowing water--soothe so many of the faithful?   
            Relics, medals, statues, candles, scapulars and palms serve as hand-holds on the rolling deck of Peter’s boat.
            Words alone are cheap. Hands-on prayer, on the other hand, begets a hands-on approach to life.
   
            My first chalice was fashioned from a walnut tree that grew on our farm. Turned on a lathe in a neighbor’s workshop, its bowl fit round and smooth in the cup of my two hands.
            The first time I stood at an altar and pronounced the words, “This is my Blood,” grains of wood shimmered like nails beneath the rose-colored wine.
            Throughout my life, the physicality of prayer has sustained my faith in mysteries that I’ll never grasp in this world but plan to hold tight in the next.