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Dear God, 

Forgive me, but I’m new at this. Well, I’m not a new believer, but I’m not used to praying this way. However, the traditional methods of praying aren’t as effective as I had hoped, and my words flow more eloquently from my hands rather than from my throat. Of the many gifts given, I must confess, my written expression has ever been my most coveted. I pray you feel the same and read with equal intentions to my writing. 

Each morning before I begin my mundane routine, I take my coffee and my dog and sit on the back deck, communing with nature and I talk to you. I figured; nature was the best catalyst for prayers considering all I survey constitutes the miracles only you could provide. The butterflies and bees dancing through the bottlebrush trees. The birds building their neighborhoods among the branches; all are welcome. I’m certain the mockingbirds are neighborhood watch, always on alert, diving and chasing the nefarious out of their proverbial cul-de-sac. I imagine the dominant little winged warrior shaking a feather and proclaiming, “Hey you squirrel, get off my branch.” 

The marvel of it all is proof of your divine existence. I look to the sky and find familiar images disguised as clouds. Often, I see your Angels as they peer down from their heavenly vantagepoint; hoping to find evidence of the good remaining in the world. I suspect it becomes more difficult of a task with each passing day. Still, I am assured of your glory when I raise my eyes to the skies. I believe in Angels, and I have known a few. They are with you now, having been called to your side, released from their earthly engagements. I am alone for the first time, truly. I pray for the fortitude I often doubt. I am no Angel, but I have witnessed greatness and want nothing more than to make my Angels proud, every day of my life. 

 It isn’t my privacy fence, or my security system that safeguards me from burgeoning ills, but omnipotent testimony. I speak aloud, unconcerned that I might be overheard. I ask for your grace, I ask for my health, I ask for prosperity and for your blessings to be bestowed on beloved family and friends. I pray for peace in my thoughts, writhing with worry and fear. Often, a gentle breeze responds, sometimes a few nourishing drops of rain. 

I confide in you, my flaws that make me human, the absurdities I do not understand, my shortcomings which stifle my accomplishments. I can accept what I cannot control; or can I? I pray for confidence, temperance, and intellect; but I fail to always remain grateful. When I was young, my parents told me it was a sin to pray for wealth or material possessions. My mother still reminds me that “people like us” are undeserving of abundance. May I ask why? Have I done something so reprehensible that I have fallen out of your favor? Can sacrilege include the desire for better health or a reliable car? Will I answer for my delusions of living in luxury at the Pearly Gates? Dreams are not sins, why then cannot they come true?  

 I pray you have recognized my genuine efforts to raise my son to be kind and charitable; forgiving and determined. I pray for him; the world around him has not been kind. Surely, he has not disappointed you. I pray for a path to be revealed, one he can follow, one which will lead him into a future of blessings. Heavenly Father, I sing your praises, and paint your portrait as one who will not discriminate with your love. I tell the story; we are all worthy of the miraculous. Still, the path seems unclear. Did you know Lord, that he dreams of a life purposefully aiding the less fortunate? He has the heart of a champion, if only he were to be gifted his proverbial sword. I believe with every cell in my body, my son would define humanity and defend your honor.

My husband suffers. He is a prisoner within his own dark thoughts. I pray for light. Grace is a limited resource, and I am frustrated. It is daunting to love someone who cannot feel or express love in return. My most precious gift, my heart, remains alone. Surely, he is worthy; one so simple surviving the complexities in this struggling world. I pray for clarity and mutual empathy, even if intimacy has long been a priority of the lowest esteem. Still, love is love and I know true love from you. Guide me in my endeavors to redefine a love that has not perished but transmuted. 

She lays dying, slowly and torturously. I love her, my friend since childhood. Yes, her faith is superficial, but I will not waiver, I will pray on her behalf. I am selfish. I have lost so many; I cannot bear the thought of the day I lose her too. Oftentimes I treat her illness as my own burden and for that I ask for your forgiveness. It is not my cross to carry, and I am ever grateful. I will invoke my sympathy and understanding even when the conversations are dark and void of hope. I pray for her children; although adults, they still ache. I cannot imagine the despair they experience, watching their mother wither bit by bit. Constant anguish they do not deserve. I pray for their strength and emotional endurance; I pray they hold on to one another; keeping their family intact and the eventual loss does not dissolve this sacred bond between brother and sister.

What once brought great joy to my life, now evokes pain and disappointment. My words have forever been my salvation, but if they are not read, can they honestly be my catharsis?

Oh, Dear Lord, quell my weaknesses and remind me of your grace. Send me a sign, as I am unclear. I ask not that you explain your plan, but only that I be included; that I am deserving of a life in which prayers are heard and answered. I care not for every extravagance bestowed upon some, but I do desire a better life void of lack and loneliness. You know where to find me; I’ll see you in the morning. I’ll see you in the trees, in the clouds, and in every tiny miracle woven into the daily tapestry that begins with our time together, on the deck. 

She did not hesitate; she pressed “send”. Instantly, she was transported back in time to the vacillating emotions of a child mailing a letter to Santa days before Christmas. All her wishes are permanently recorded, whisking their way to an almighty recipient. Will anyone read her requests, or will they simply dissolve somewhere into a digital abyss, a virtual vortex of lost dreams and futile desires. Was there such a phenomenon? She decided it would not be prudent to await a response and closed her laptop. Reaching for the tiny silver cross suspended around her neck, she closed her eyes, wondering if she should have signed her email. Surely, God would know; wouldn’t he? Moments, mere moments passed before the all too familiar chime alerting her to check the inbox on her account sounded. Coincidence. It was likely an advertisement for a real estate company or insurance options. Alas, curiosity overwhelmed, and she opened the screen, clicked on the email and read: 

My dear child,

This is not an automated response, and you are encouraged to reply. However, I will see you in the morning.