Just the other day, I caught myself praying for good weather—something I had stopped doing when I came to believe prayers should be more adult, at the very least beyond weather concerns. But this time it felt the most natural thing to do—ask the heavens for the safety of my granddaughter, a first-grader, and her classmates and teachers.

She was going out of town without us for the first time. Surely, her sweet-seven innocence rendered her vulnerable to what dangers might lurk between her school, near home, and Rizal’s house in Biñan, Laguna, two hours away—bad weather was just one of them.

But, as important as it all was, the thought of offering eggs to Santa Clara at the orphanage, an old practice that had unfailingly worked for my own children’s garden parties, a long time ago, never came to mind.

Although almost pagan, such barter of eggs for good weather was what everybody did until more conventional prayers or novenas proved to some just as effective; not to mention, symptoms of high cholesterol were manifesting among the nuns and orphans. Anyway, everybody prayed for just about anything and everything.

Unexpected turn

And I had done similarly until my “ideal” life took an unexpected turn: I suddenly found myself unable to pray the way I used to. The very meaning of prayer as I had understood it seemed to be redefining itself. I could have been growing up and becoming wise or merely becoming proud and confused. I started asking myself philosophical questions that seemed not only cockeyed but poor excuses for not praying.

What’s there to pray for when God has already given me everything? Why ask when what I don’t have I probably shouldn’t have, anyway? What chance does any prayer have against God’s plan? Why even pray when it’s God’s will that always prevails?

Against those pompous ponderings, my outdated prayers seemed immature and selfish, coming from a state of lack, discontent, ingratitude and a non-acceptance of God’s plan. All the while that I didn’t pray I could have been doing God a favor, sparing Him my own silly wishes. I saw myself as a low-maintenance devotee, capable of taking care of herself. The truth is, what I really needed was a few blows to the head to wake me up to realize—as I would, indeed, in time—that the essence of prayer is humility.

Some friends discovered in the course of a life of prayer what works best for them. There’s Inday, no regular Sunday churchgoer but finding a way to connect with God every day.

“I have a running conversation with God all day,” she says. The daily dialogue did not save her marriage, but she nevertheless credits it for having helped her raise her three boys to be the professional successes and loving sons they are today, with families of their own.

Gigi is another. It’s she I run to in fact when I need prayerful reinforcement. She has been blessed also with accomplished children, not to mention material comforts. Yet, one prayer that mattered the world to her didn’t get the answer she had hoped for: she lost her husband in midlife, but that never stopped her from praying for everybody else.

Sacrifice

She explains how she goes about it: “I like to offer a little sacrifice first, some form of self-denial, before praying.” She could well be giving away the secret to effective prayer. I must have asked her so many times I’m now on her regular prayer list.

After my own long but temporary rest from traditional prayer, I seem inclined to start again without judging what’s worth praying for—even good-weather prayer can be motivated by love. And I found help in an old story.

A long-time devotee can no longer hide her disappointment with her guru, an enlightened being, who seems oblivious to her sufferings, not any kind of sympathy whatsoever offered for what she’s going through. Finally she finds the chance to blurt out her frustrations,

“Surely I don’t have to tell you how troubled I have been for a while now. Why have you not come to help me when you very well know what I’m going through?” To which the guru answers, “I will not intervene uninvited.”

In essence, I suppose, that’s what prayer is—an invitation to grace. The point is, the invitation itself requires the humility to ask. It can happen especially if you are like me, who likes to do everything possible even as I invite grace in. This brings to mind another proud devotee in another story.

A devotee who has lost something precious turns to God. At the same time he puts his own best effort in the search. After a time he finds what he has been looking for and promptly turns around, “Oh, never mind God, I’ve found it by myself.”

Indeed, false humility can easily make one grab the credit for oneself and downgrade the power of prayer. If I’ve found my way back, it’s because I’ve been brought to my knees, properly humbled, after being lifted out of one of the most difficult times of my long life.

As they say, there are no atheists in foxholes. Indeed, in a tight spot, there’s no space for pride—prayer in fact just comes naturally.