I think most people pray. They offer up their worries and wishes to the sky all of the time, even if they don't know they do it. I've heard commuter people breathe "Oh God," when the bus hits a bump that lurches our feet and stomachs and unsettles us all. I've heard an entire church shout songs on Sunday afternoon. I've seen people jiggling keys in locks, whining "please please please," and I've seen a man quietly weeping at a crosswalk.
They're praying to all kinds of things--to luck, to hope, to destiny. They pray to their own dreams, to trees and mountains, to their dear deceased mother or father or auntie or golden retriever. I think some people even pray to themselves--they pray to say the things that no known being or substance should hear.
I, well, I pray to God. I ask Him for things mostly, which I feel bad about. It's one of those one-sided friendships that pains the giver--God must be so tired of my pleading voice, of my narrow requests. But sometimes, when good things happen that most would attribute to chance, I hush my gratitude at Him. "Thank you for my friends. For my parents, for my siblings. Thank you for my brain and my job and my feelings, God. Thank you for wind and red and peanut butter and Ibuprofen."
Most mornings, nights, lunch breaks, and panicked moments, I know he's listening. But some nights, I feel my words hit the ceiling and fall back down onto my shoulders. My overflowing shoulders. There are so many words on the floor there, by the side of my bed, waiting for another toss to the moon.
But then I'll wake one dawn, after one night or one week or compounded years, to see that the floor is clean. To see that really, He's heard it all. His ears are never broken; sometimes, it's just me.