It’s a scary thing, God, to put a prayer down on paper…to offer up a permanent petition, proof of my tiny faith. 

I prayed for the children, starving in Africa and in my backyard. But now I remember that I forgot to pray for their parents, hungry also, and suffering the double agony of feeling helpless to take care of their children. 

Then the drought. I prayed for rain, and before I could celebrate the downpour that came when I pronounced “amen,” my phone shrieked out warnings, creeks swelled, and farmers stared as seeds washed away. 

I prayed for black lives today, God, as earnestly as I could. But my friends in brown skin I relegated to more of a P.S. And persistence, God! 

How do I know if I’m the widow, pressing on, or whether I'm the stiff-necked people Moses apologized for? 

I always seem to be praying for yesterday, for what has already happened rather than for tomorrow and my part in creating it. 

Then there's today, God, which I often have only one foot and half a mind in. I need help, God. Something clear, please.

“When you pray, say, ‘Our Creator….’”

Oh. Yes. That will do.

Amen.