Prayer, for me, is less a formula than a breath—sometimes a whisper of gratitude, sometimes a cry in the night, sometimes only silence shared with the One who knows the words I cannot find. It is a deep listening, a turning of the heart toward a Presence that is already here, waiting like dawn just beyond the hills.
Much like stepping into the still meadow at daybreak, prayer invites me into a space where time slows and the edges of the world soften. I bring my whole self: the joys that light my spirit, the doubts that sit heavy on the chest, the wounds still tender, and the hopes that reach toward heaven.
Here in the quiet beauty of the Finger Lakes—among lakes that mirror the sky, woodlands that breathe in unison, and the steady rise and fall of seasons—I have learned that prayer does not always change the landscape. Sometimes, it changes the traveler. It shapes the way I see, strengthens the way I walk, and teaches me to trust the path even when it winds through shadow.
These prayers grew out of those moments of turning—at the kitchen table, in the woods, at the lakeshore, beside a hospital bed—where the sacred pressed close. I offer them to you as companions for your own journey into God’s loving presence. May they remind us that we are never alone, and that every heart’s cry is gathered tenderly by the One who hears.
Prayers
In My Words 