Prayers of North Alabama
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Sean of the South
On Highway 67, atop Priceville Mountain, stands the Cross of North Alabama. The 121-foot cross stands proudly in a flawless blue sky, overlooking a rural Morgan County.
The base of the enormous cross is peppered in Post-It notes. All sizes, all colors. Flapping in the autumn breeze. These notes are prayers from those who visit the cross.
The prayers are written with differing standards of penmanship. Some prayers, you can just tell, are written in a teenage hand.
“God, why do I feel like I am not enough for myself or for anyone? Help me.”
“Help me not feel so ugly.”
“Help me make good decisions, not hang out with a bad crowd, help me love me for me.”
“Bring my family back together, God.”
Many prayers are written in Spanish. Others are written in memory of the deceased. A lot of prayers – a whole lot – are written in childish handwriting.
“My brother killed his self.”
“Dear God, I prying 4 u cause who prys for u?”
“For my kitten to get better.”
I met a young woman at the base of the cross when I was visiting. It was a clear November afternoon. We were the only visitors in the giant pasture beneath the towering monument.
She was writing a prayer on a Post-It notepad. She said she was on her way to the Dollar General, but she had too much on her mind to go to the DG. So she came here.
“I come here a lot,” she says. “I only started coming a few weeks ago.”
She is a meek woman. Soft spoken and kind. She finishes writing on the Post-It and sticks it to the base of the cross.
“We’re going through a rough time right now,” she says. “When I come here, I write my prayers down, and I just leave them. That’s the whole point. To leave it all here.”
She tells me her son has autism, and sometimes has suicidal thoughts. She says her late father had paranoid schizophrenia. It’s so much to deal with. She has been shouldering the load. And sometimes it never seems to get easier.
“All I know how to do is pray,” she says.
There are tears in her eyes. And in mine. She looks like she could be my sister. Or maybe my cousin. And in a way, we are members of the same family.
“I’m tired of carrying it all myself,” she says. “That’s what this cross is for. You put your heavy burdens here. That’s what I’m trying to do.”
We hug. I don’t know her. She doesn’t know me. But we’re right here. In this place. Together. And that has to mean something.
I admit to her that I’ve been driving past this massive cross since they built it, but not once have I stopped to read the prayers. I’m ashamed by this, which I also admit to her.
She smiles at me.
“Don’t be ashamed,” she says.
She nods to the monument, standing on the hill. “There ain’t no more shame.”
