Desperate prayer is the only kind I’ve ever known. After Mom passed, I relied on my own instincts to tell me when it was appropriate to pull on that heavenly pair of tin cans tied together with angel’s-harp string. I’d shut my eyes tight and ask something bigger than myself to intervene. A force of some kind. Some deity. Some all-powerful, all-knowledgeable, all-capable thing. Something my mother called God.
