I prayed this morning. No, I didn’t quite pray; I unloaded. Some people have those deep prayers where they sit and listen for God. The late Mother Teresa, when asked what she said when she prayed, replied, “Nothing. I just listen.” When asked what God said, she replied, “Nothing. He just listens, too.”

That’s beyond me.

My method: pour everything out on God for some cathartic relief.

Praise? I don’t really do that. I spend so much time telling God all these needs I have that I can’t remember his goodness for listening to all of my selfish requests.

Thanks? I’ll do that a few times. In the midst of, “Bless so and so,” I sometimes feel a bright gratitude for some loved one, and I then offer up an affectionate but inadequate, “Thank you so much for this person,” because that’s all I can muster in the midst of my joy and poorly prayed prayers.
 

We learned incorrectly. We assumed that we needed to begin with the endpoint of perfection instead of traveling along the continuum of life as a journey. Communication takes place in progression. We age. We grow. We develop in thinking and faith, ultimately learning the desire to learn how to listen.  And learning the desire to learn how to pray. Infancy: We enter into this world. Our relationship with our parents stems from our state of constant need and incapability. Communication consists in a series of whimpers and wails during the day and throughout the night. We are hungry. We are tired. Feed us. Clothe us. Put us to bed. 

“Practice moderation in moderation,” the yoga instructor repeated in a melodic chanting as she rhythmically struck the studio-sized mini gong. My mom and I attempted to stay balanced as we stifled laughter. This exercise in relaxation stretched more than just our muscles and tightly-wound tendons. Admittedly we were yoga novices, far more accustomed to a brisk runs or lengthy bike rides.

 

Yet despite my inability to keep a straight face, I think back to those words that almost circumvent themselves. Moderation. Moderation in moderation because without moderate moderation, moderation fails to exist in the first place. It seems redundant, doesn’t it?

We struggle with the concept of listening. This stems from our inability to value silence, to seek out solitude. We fill every moment and space with sound. Coffee shops, bookstores and bars hum with music, as streets and cities buzz with urban life’s song: construction, transportation, communication.

Runners often carry one indispensable accessory in addition to shoes: some form of earpiece. Commercial gyms without music or televisions don’t exist.

Do you remember the fantasy-inducing childhood question? “If you had three wishes, what would you wish for?” Everyone would always say, “More wishes,” or “infinite wishes” until the questioners grew wise to this and axed that option.

 

You’d toss out, “world peace” as to not appear selfish. Then you’d try to come up with something that engaged all your desires in two more wishes. Money was a big one, because enough of it would provide you plenty more wishes.
But the game felt so flawed and limited. Why can’t we have infinite wishes?

Jesus says, “You may ask me for anything in my name and I will do it” (John 14:14).

Moby once said that if given the choice as a child, he would’ve eaten Oreos for breakfast, ice cream for lunch, and Oreos mixed in ice cream for dinner. He claims he would’ve been happy. Fortunately, his parents disagreed and intervened.

 

Who doesn’t relate to this in some way? We each want something of Oreos, ice cream, then Oreos and ice cream together. We might call it a new car, or that particular someone we want to fall in love with us, or the right med school. From our vantage point, at 18, 26, 34, 49, 57 or 73, we usually know what we want and why it’s best for us.

 

You see it so often. Two people furiously clash over some words, meanings or intentions lost on the path of communication. It sounds like Capitol Hill during an election year. But it could be closer than you think: classmates discussing a project, fraternity brothers checking expense accounts, or any man and woman fighting over semantics. Both parties desperately want the other to hear them, to receive their words and meaning.