Praying

When I was a little girl, my parents sent me to Catholic school where I’d attend mass twice a week. During mass, we’d kneel and pray. I never knew what to pray for, so I’d count in my head until the altar boy rang the bells. This is what I remember about praying - the first set of bells were longer than the second.
One day, we had to learn the Lord’s Prayer by heart. I practiced with my mother until I had it down perfectly. I went to school and the teacher sent me home that afternoon with a note to my Protestant mother, requesting that my Catholic father help me with my homework. That was the end of Catholic school for me. No more Hail Mary’s full of “grapes.” No more Protestant Our Father’s. I began public school immediately.
My father still took us to church every Sunday morning. As I grew older, I learned that we are obligated to pray for the dead, to pray for the less fortunate, the sick and the weak. And so I began each silent intention with a prayer for my grandmother. And one terrible morning I had to add Carolyn. Becky was next. Another year, I added my grandpa, and most recently, uncle Bill.
After the list of the deceased, my standard prayer for the homeless followed, because they are less fortunate than me. Lastly, I would add a small sentiment for my family, to keep them safe.
As I get older, the list grows longer. Never shorter. If I could ever truly pray for the intentions our Higher Power needed to address, I’d never get off my knees. Now that I have a daughter of my own, I struggle with prayer even more. I pray for the wisdom to live with the choices I have made, the ones she will make, and the strength to embrace the world’s suffering rather than hoisting it up and carrying it on my shoulders.