What do you pray for?

I grew up catholic with a pretty religious mom and extended family. I remember very specific guidance around prayer- you pray everyday to protect your eternal existence, you pray to say thanks for everything you have because you are guaranteed nothing, you pray for what other people need that they don’t have, and you never ever pray for things, no matter how bad you want them. God does not exist to help us get barbies, find your car keys you misplaced, or to help you get a convertible like your neighbors that you’ve been coveting. 

As my relationship with God fluctuated over the years, this was a key thing that stuck with me. In the hardest years of my adolescence and young adulthood,  God was central to how I lived my life and I prayed for exactly one thing: strength. Strength to make it through the temporary hard moment, strength to be better than I was yesterday, strength to forgive the people that hurt me. Strength in all forms and in all moments but that was all I needed. 

While I am no less grateful or humble in my requests, I rarely go to church or pray. In fact, it’s possible for months to go by without praying. And I’m ok with that. I think there are other ways to take care of each other and ourselves, namely practicing gratitude and living our values. 

The other night I found myself in silent prayer as the sister-in-law I am closest to was heading into the hospital to deliver her third baby. There was no reason for concern or worry but I found myself silently pleading for safe labor and delivery for both my niece and her mother. My emotional pull into that prayerful moment was likely fueled by my own recent delivery and the complicated blend of fear and anticipation and joy that comes with welcoming a new baby into the world. 

But it got me thinking about my relationship with prayer. And wondering how often I actually seize a quiet moment to throw positive energy into the universe on behalf of the people I love or my own wellbeing. As a mother of two, I’m guessing it’s actually pretty often. Sometimes we call it hope. I hope my husband drives carefully, I hope my sons don’t get hurt, I hope my parents live many more years and in good health. Those moments of hope, when I’m wishing for the best, and putting good energy out there aren’t that far off from the way I would drop to me knees at the edge of my bed each night before I went to sleep when I was a child. 

Call it prayer, call it wish, call it hope. What is the big ask you have right now for you or your loved ones? What is it that you pray for? 

Just here. Just now. Just this.

I have 2 children, a husband, a new full time job supervising 50 people, an adjunct teaching position with 4 course each semseter, 3 board positions, a volunteer position, and a circle of family and friends that is very dear to me. It’s a lot, no question. I swear by “to do“ lists, efficient time management, and a solid support team. 

In addition to my professional and personal commitments, I feel emotionally impacted by larger human issues: our country’s polarized political landscape, issues around social justice, global warming, the frequency of acts of violence in the community, and a helplessness in fighting for a future I believe our children deserve. 

My Zen Buddhist practice deserves more attention than it gets but when things get busy, one of the most valuable lessons surfaces: just here, just now, just this. A reminder that we are at our best, most connected, most effective when we are present. I can zero in on the moment I’m in, the people I’m with, and the task with which I’m am faced. 

I pay attention to my breathing, minimize distractions, lean into the problems I’m facing, remember that I can do hard things, and embrace the reality that I am imperfect. 

I can’t solve all of the world’s problems. There is a limit to the number of commitments I can accommodate. Everything is temporary. Experiences matter more than things. I will make mistakes. Relationships matter more than moments of difficulty. 

I need to periodically refocus, prioritize, and breathe. By leaning into the moment, I am prepared for each additional moment. 

Can you relate? Start right where you are. Just here. Just now. Just this.