Prayer

We are practicing Catholics.

Some combination of us attend Mass Saturday evenings; lately, Mr. C takes The Poo, while Shaggy and I stay behind. The five o’clock hour is the boy’s worst, and trust me when I say no crying room can contain his wrath.

The Poo generally behaves as would any other four-year-old who is asked to sit still for an hour. She fidgets and sings and draws in her little notebook, the one I keep in her “church bag,” a small tote filled with diversions to keep her quiet.

It seems she’s been paying attention during the service, however. Lately, she’s been asking to pray at dinner. It is atypical for us to say grace before every meal, but we do sometimes say a prayer before eating on special occasions or when we are feeling particularly thankful.

Not only does The Poo like the concept of saying grace, she wants to be the one to say it. Her prayers are so sincere and heartfelt that it’s difficult to keep a straight face.

“Thank you, God, for our food, and for trees and for the air that trees make, and for Mommy and Daddy and Miss Brenda,” she says.

Miss Brenda is her preschool teacher.

It is, in a word, adorable.

***

The Poo and I are sharing a bed while we’re in Cleveland for the holiday. Last night, I laid beside her while she fought off the Sandman with all her might, talking and wiggling to stay awake. About 45 minutes after we put her to bed, she finally closed her eyes.

But still, she talked.

I was working on my laptop, so her words didn’t register right away. Then I listened to what she was saying.

Amy, Channing, Henry, Emmie, she said, over and over and over again.

Then:

Together forever.

I closed my laptop and rolled onto my side, watching her chant our names, a mantra to keep her safe as she drifted off to sleep, at last.

A finer prayer I never heard.