Man

I remember my mother teaching me to pray. As I pressed my palms together, she sat by my bed and coaxed me to say, “Dear God,” or something like that, then she’d say, “Who do you want to pray for?” And I’d say, “Please bless Daddy and Mur (which is what we called my mother) and Chrissie, and Helen, and Jack.” Then, having run out of immediate family, I’d begin on aunts, uncles, and cousins, “And bless Aunt Bettyanne, and Uncle Charles, and Uncle Flash, and Aunt Virginia, and Don, and Bob.” And then I’d think of grandparents, “And bless Baba and Meemaw.” Then, once the tiny rolodex in my five year-old brain had been exhausted, we’d say, “Amen,” and Mur would turn out the light and I’d go to sleep.

At the time I didn’t really understand what we were doing. God was someone I didn’t know and hadn’t met, but whom Mur had told me about, like Santa Claus or the Tooth Fairy. But looking back, I think those prayers were some of the purest I ever made. What they amounted to was holding in my heart the image of someone I loved and inviting an unseen listener to hold them in His heart too. It’s been twenty years now since Mur died, and though I still miss her, I feel more and more that she is still with me. Please bless Mur. And bless Nancy, and Catherine, and Spencer, and Drew, and Glenn, and Aife, and Sydney, and Reese, and the twins who will be here in March. And bless you.