Praying

Growing up in a nonreligious family in the Northwest, I thought Christianity was nothing more than a bedtime story. When I was in fourth grade, we moved to the South. It took me a while to adjust to life in a small North Carolina town. I began to understand the drawl and enjoy the regional food, but the emphasis on religion was beyond me.

One day, while I was in math class, the lights went out. Tree limbs bashed against the windows. Rain pummeled the tops of cars in the parking lot so loudly we could hear it two stories up. A voice over the intercom called for everyone to follow “tornado plan C.”

“We’re going to die!” yelled one of my friends. A classroom full of panic-stricken nine-year-olds began to cry.

We were herded into the basement and told to sit with our heads to the wall and our hands covering our necks. The room was mostly quiet except for a constant whisper coming from the frail blond girl beside me. I realized she was praying, asking God to protect all of us. I’d never heard anyone pray before and was amazed at how calm she looked, as if God himself were beside her. I also marveled at her devotion to the faith she thought would save her.

For all I know, her praying did save us. Though branches were broken and cars overturned, no one was hurt. Later, when a boy made fun of the blond girl for praying, I punched him and made his nose bleed. “Eileen!” the girl said to me. “I’m going to pray for both of you tonight.”

Eileen McDonald
Greensboro, North Carolina

I used to set aside solitary time to pray, but with two young kids, I rarely have a moment to myself anymore. I look forward to a time when I can once again enjoy periods of quiet meditation. For now, my prayers are woven into my daily routine: remembering a hurting friend as I fold laundry; weeping over broken nations as I bounce my colicky baby boy; whispering a plea for help as I fight tears of loneliness; thanking Jesus for the safety of my children as I tuck them into bed at night.

Melana Bontrager
Everett, Washington

I was raised in a Messianic Jewish family, which means we believed Jesus was the Messiah, but we maintained a Jewish cultural identity. My mother taught me to talk to God whenever I felt like it, and to pray in whatever way I was comfortable. I preferred to pray with both eyes open, looking at God’s creation.

We went to two services each week: one at a traditional Christian church, and one at a Messianic Jewish congregation. One Sunday when I was five, I attended the Christian Sunday school. When the children gathered in a circle to pray, I gripped the seat of my chair and gazed up at the ceiling.

“What are you doing?” the teacher whispered. “It’s time to pray.”

I explained that I prayed with my eyes open.

“If you don’t pray with your head bowed and your eyes closed, then God will be mad at you,” she said.

When my mother came to pick me up, I told her what had happened, and she gave that teacher a lesson of her own. I never went back to that class, and I still pray with my eyes wide open.

Chaim Dauermann
New York, New York

When I was growing up in Calcutta in the late 1940s, violence between Muslims and Hindus was sweeping through the city. I had witnessed a murder by the time I was seven.

My Christian family lived in a large house on the border between a Hindu neighborhood and a Muslim one. We hired both Hindu and Muslim domestics and offered refuge to anyone who felt threatened.

I feared the Hindus would kill Abdul, who cared for my younger brother and me. Abdul tried to reassure me by pointing out that he was eighty and close to death anyway. Besides, he added, every Hindu in the neighborhood knew him and would not attack him.

Wanting to keep him safe, I followed Abdul everywhere, except to his room, where he prayed facing Mecca five times a day. Mother said I should respect his privacy at those times and not bother him, but one day I broke the rule and tiptoed into his room. Abdul was kneeling with his forehead to the ground. He stood up and then knelt again, murmuring prayers. He was a picture of dignity and calm amid the strife surrounding our house.

When Abdul had finished his prayers, he smiled at me and said, “God will protect both of us. Don’t you think?”

Manish Nandy
Reston, Virginia

I used to work across the street from the World Trade Center. After the attacks on September 11, 2001, I didn’t leave my Harlem apartment for several days. I was afraid even to shower, because the window in my shower faced south, and I worried that another terrorist attack would shatter it and send glass flying into my body.

On the third day I decided I needed to go outside. As I walked from 139th Street to Riverside Park, I felt far away from what was going on around me. When I came to Riverside Church, I went inside and sat down and asked God to take away my fear and give me back myself. Nothing happened. So I zigzagged farther south to the Cathedral of Saint John the Divine, which has always felt especially holy to me. I sat in the sanctuary and prayed for my fear to go away, for my mind to slow down. I’d never prayed so selfishly before.

Gradually I sensed God’s presence. Then, for the first time, I felt physically touched by God. For almost half an hour God held me like a baby in a womb. The anxiety went away, and I knew that from then on everything would be OK. Not that there wouldn’t be more attacks; not that I wouldn’t die. But that everything would be OK.

Rev. David J. Huber
Eau Claire, Wisconsin

After graduating from seminary, I became one of seven ministers in a smalltown church. We rotated duties, and I was often asked to lead the congregational prayer. After the service I’d receive requests for copies of my prayer and messages of appreciation from church members who said I’d articulated their own deep concerns.

After I’d been at the church for two years, the congregation had to decide whether to seek ordination for me as pastor. As my ordination date approached, a retired minister in the congregation began to complain publicly about my prayers. She accused me of offering Jewish prayers rather than Christian prayers, because I didn’t end each one by invoking Jesus’ name. To her, this meant God would be deaf to my entreaties.

Despite her complaints, I was ordained and continued to offer the congregational prayers, but I now ended each one with “In the name of Jesus, amen.” I usually stammered on this ending, because I was so self-conscious. The woman soon began complaining about my sermons, my theology, and my language for God, and I eventually left that congregation. Now when I pray publicly, even if only to bless a meal, I always rush through the ending, feeling anxious rather than joyful.

June Mears Driedger
Lansing, Michigan

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