October 2 2023

The wind prays through fabric for me, over me, around me. I don’t know this one says. Doesn’t matter. I could look it up but the mystery is more enticing than the knowledge. I like how prayer does not keep to one form. I like how something or someone can pray on my behalf when I am unable or unwilling. I like it that prayer is not codependent; it happens with us, without us. Sometimes I like the wonder of it and sometimes I hate it, when it feels futile and meaningless. Enough of this, I say. What’s the point.

I like that silence is prayer — so can words and work and walking and a glance and a mountain. I like it that John the Baptizer taught his followers to pray with words and that Jesus was so unconcerned with it that he had to be asked. Would he have even talked about praying with language had he not been questioned? But boy did we ever run with that. “Let us pray” and then someone says words that hold no surprise. Maybe he was hesitant to tell the people the Our Father ‘cause he knew, “Well this will be that now. What a bummer.”

So my boys ask what is prayer? And I say what makes your heart sing? And they say the leaves shaking in the wind. And I say bowing. And they say dancing. And I say an ant carrying a stick. And they say bubble baths. And I say long hugs. And they say tickle fights. And I say silence. And they say shouting. And I say thank yous.

The wind blows through the fabric and around a photo of my boys on my bench. The photo flaps its own prayer.

Thank you, thank you, thank you.