I used to pray as a kid. Every night. It was just part of the routine, something I did without overthinking it. Then somewhere along the way, with age and experience and a whole lot of life in between, it stopped. Not dramatically. It just faded out.
But here is the thing. Some nights, when I am alone and the apartment is quiet, something comes over me. A low-level fear that I cannot always name. What happens if something goes wrong with my body and nobody knows? What about Christine, Aneil, the people I love? The mind goes places at 3 AM that it does not go in daylight.
And in those moments, without really planning it, I find myself praying again.
Part of it is gratitude. I was raised Christian, and even with all the questions that come with being an adult, that foundation never fully left. I still feel something when I do something wrong, like I am being watched. Like there is a ledger somewhere. Other times I wonder if any of that is real. I genuinely do not know.
What I do know is this. My upbringing gave me something to believe in, and my life experience has made me question all of it. Both things are true at the same time and I have stopped trying to resolve that tension. The belief is still there. The certainty is not.
Maybe that is enough. Maybe prayer does not require certainty. Maybe it just requires honesty about where you are.
I am somewhere in the middle. It is what it is, and I hope that’s enough for admission to heaven.
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