Lord, Thou knowest better than I know myself that I am growing older and will some day be old. Keep me from the fatal habit of thinking I must say something on every subject and on every occasion. Release me from craving to straighten out everybody's affairs. Make me thoughtful but not moody: helpful but not bossy. With my vast store of wisdom, it seems a pity not to use it at all, but Thou knowest Lord that I want a few friends at the end.
Keep my mind free from the recital of endless details; give me wings to get to the point. Seal my lips on my aches and pains. They are increasing, and love of rehearsing them is becoming sweeter as the years go by. I dare not ask for grace enough to enjoy the tales of others' pains, but help me to endure them with patience.
I dare not ask for improved memory, but for a growing humility and a lessening cocksureness when my memory seems to clash with the memories of others. Teach me the glorious lesson that occasionally I may be mistaken.
Keep me reasonably sweet; I do not want to be a Saint - some of them are so hard to live with - but a sour old person is one of the crowning works of the devil. Give me the ability to see good things in unexpected places, and talents in unexpected people. And give me, O Lord, the grace to tell them so.
AMEN
Why I love this poem
Doesn’t this lively prayer reveal a vividly drawn character? The suspicion is that the lady does break all the rules which she is praying to keep. Errors may be inadvertent for the most part, but surely sometimes her sins are committed with outrageous deliberation. She appears as a woman of strong character, well aware of her faults – without exactly admitting to them or apologising for them. Equally probable is that she will find good reason for her aberrations, no doubt sounding plausible throughout. There is amusement in the self-mockery and her humility is smug, if also slightly ashamed. Perhaps that is why the reader reluctantly but undeniably finds her waywardness loveable.
And is she not a cautionary example, especially for those of us nearing her stage of life if not already there?
By Margaret (Meg) Woodward
I was born into a family where most of the men were farmers and most of the women graduated, education being their 'share' of the inheritance. For several generations it has been the women who became scholars or adventurers (except for the boys called to war) or who entered professions like teaching or medicine. Raised in rural NE Scotland I graduated from Aberdeen University to work with the O.U.P. (at a time when the London office was Amen House near St Paul's, backing on to the Old Bailey and where, down in the basement, a remnant of the old Roman Wall around Londinium still survived.)
Publishing, teaching at all levels, raising a family while following a scientific civil servant husband around the country; many crafts, music, dancing, gardening, bee-keeping; voluntary work for the National Trust for Scotland involving guiding, preparation of education material, publicity and flower-arranging; building two houses; planting a five acre wood; puppy walking for Guide Dogs for the Blind; two long trips around the world as belated 'gap years'; all of this provided grist for my writing mill which has ground steadily and sometimes successfully since my childhood alongside a very busy life. I write in both English and Doric (NE Scottish dialect), for adults and children, fact, fiction (especially historical) and drama.
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