"Is There a Right Way to Pray?"

     Several years ago, a friend (non-Catholic) who was rediscovering her faith and had decided to attend church again on a regular basis, asked me, "Is there a right way to pray?" At that time, I myself had just returned to the Church after an absence, in both body and spirit, of over 20 years; I, too, was finding my way through the many great mysteries of faith and trying to sort out the various practices and doctrines which, in the Catholic Church, are numerous. When my friend posed her question to me I'm afraid I didn't have a good answer. In fact, I had been asking myself the same question.

     As a child, of course, I learned the requisite prayers by rote and recited them like a little robot, without really understanding what I was saying. Since everyone else around me seemed to be doing the same thing, I assumed that that's what prayer was: reciting formulated words over and over again, day after day. Then there was "asking for things." Again, to my child's mind, that simply meant asking for things I wanted, much like sitting on Santa's knee and listing my wants for Christmas. God was just another kind of Santa who lived way up in the sky instead of at the North Pole. When he didn't give me what I wanted, I concluded that he either didn't hear me, or was overly busy with requests at that time. Jesus was someone I knew about from my catechism classes. I was taught that he was God's Son and that he died for us, but I was unclear as to why. The words "redemption" and "salvation" meant nothing to me. As for Mary, I thought she was very pretty and nice, that she was Jesus' mother and was someone comfortable to talk with in my imagination. In fact, because she was a woman, I found it easier to talk to her than to Jesus. I was a little shy with Jesus, as I was with boys.

     When I returned to the faith as an adult in my early 40's, the "little robot" who mindlessly recited the Our Father and asked for things she wanted had been replaced by a searching, floundering, and deeply needful woman who didn't know exactly what it was she needed. All I knew was that there was a void in me, and God seemed to be asking me to ask him to fill it. He was inviting me to pray. And I wanted to pray. I had to pray. What I didn't understand till later was that the very desire to pray was, in itself, prayer. God gives the desire and also grants it. The soul's wordless crying out for a strength stronger than any it itself can muster is the most profound and most genuine prayer it can offer up; St Paul confirms that. Simply opening your heart and saying, "I trust you, Father," is enough. If my friend asked me today, "Is there a right way to pray?" that's what I would tell her.