The past month has been filled with text messages and conversations with friends. And while this may sound like “business as usual,” it hasn’t been. It hasn’t been the typical complaints about work or commentaries on funny things children say.

Instead, it’s been a lot of bad news. The kind of news filled with tests and waiting and devastation. The kind you can’t pray your way out of.

And suddenly, my fragile relationship with prayer fractured even further.

I often tell people my relationship with God is permanently classified as “it’s complicated.” Although it sounds a bit tongue in cheek, I mean it with complete sincerity. I am strong-willed, distrustful, and at times a bit impatient. I have a hard time believing in anyone or anything, especially some omniscient being no one has ever seen.

But prayer? That’s where the complications start feeling personal.

Me + Prayer = Confusion

Growing up in the Catholic church meant that I witnessed two types of prayer. The first, naturally, is all of the scripted prayers like Hail Mary and The Apostle’s Creed. These prayers were all used at specific times for specific purposes, and you would recite them in a sort of monotone, robotic voice.

In contrast, you had the times spent praying in silence. No one explains the structure here, leaving it up to your imagination to fill in the picture of what this type of silent reflection should look like.

I found those memorized, recited prayers to be easy and comforting. They were familiar, they were consistent, and I didn’t have to think. Yet, without anything to go off besides, “Pray about what’s on your heart,” the silent personal prayer time felt chaotic and often frightening because I was left alone with my thoughts.

To make matters worse, the Catholic church also does a great job building brains that can easily enter into “shame spirals” since you must be worthy to ask anything of God and therefore spend a lot of time “confessing” all the ways in which you aren’t worthy so you can seek forgiveness.

And yet, somewhere in the middle of the personal confessionals and penance, I found a way to ask for things.

Prayers Often End in Silence

Most of us turn to prayer when we need something—when we’re desperate, broken, and longing for answers we can’t seem to find anywhere else. I’m no different.

I’ve begged God before. Pleaded. Bargained. Whispered shaky words into the darkness hoping they’d find a home in the ears of Someone who could make the pain stop.

The first time I remember doing this, I was in high school. My world felt heavy in a way that made breathing seem optional. I didn’t have the words to articulate what I needed—I just knew I wanted it all to stop. So I stood in front of the medicine cabinet, grabbed whatever bottles looked the strongest, and swallowed a handful of chaos. I remember repeatedly whispering into the darkness of my room, “Please just let me die. Please let this be the end.”

It wasn’t. I woke up, groggy and confused, and to be honest, a little disappointed. My prayer went unanswered.

Years later, I found myself praying again, this time with even more desperation—but for a very different reason. I was in the ICU waiting room after watching Emily’s heart flatline. They rushed in with the crash cart, starting compressions. I wasn’t allowed to stay in the room. So I paced the waiting room, cycling between pleading for her to stay, vomiting from the weight of it all, and somehow still hoping that maybe—just maybe—God would give her back to me.

But she didn’t come back.

I don’t think there’s a single prayer I’ve ever meant more than the one I prayed for her life. And still, silence.

Given my history combined with the past few weeks, I have been questioning what the true purpose of prayer is, because it sure isn’t for God to help us with what we ask for.

The Real Purpose of Prayer

Isn’t it fascinating that we simultaneously believe God is omniscient, yet also assume we need to “ask” for things? If God is truly “all knowing,” then he knows what’s on our heart and in our minds all the time. Furthermore, he already knows what the future holds, so why bother asking for anything at all?

I think, when you break it down, prayer isn’t necessarily for God’s benefit, but rather for ours.

As humans, we often struggle when we can’t control situations. When we experience a loss, when our loved ones receive medical diagnoses, when life gives us lemons, we feel scared and powerless… and there’s nothing we can do or say to “fix” it.

So, what do we do? We turn to something outside of ourselves. Something bigger than us. Someone omnipresent, omniscient, and omnipotent. A higher power if you will.

In other words, prayer isn’t for God—it’s for us.

When we pray, we get to control the narrative. We can channel all of that powerlessness and fear into a conversation. We can work through the pain, the confusion, the anger, or the anxiety that consumes us. Even if our wishes aren’t granted, even if our requests aren’t handled in the way we see fit, we still experience the release and relief we need to move forward. We can pat ourselves on the back and say we tried, we did something to change the situation, to help the people we love.

Whether I realized it or not, I’ve been approaching prayer from this perspective for over a year now. And in that time, the conversations and ways in which I immerse myself in prayerful meditation have changed.

It started a little over a year ago, the day after my first date since Emily died. I remember kneeling at the chancel rail, tears streaming down my face, acknowledging that I didn’t understand what was happening. But instead of making a specific request, instead of asking for God to “fix” the situation, I simply meditated on a single word: discernment.

These days, I still pray—but it looks different. I don’t ask for miracles or try to bargain with the universe. I sit. I breathe. I try to listen.

I don’t know if God hears me. I don’t know if any of this actually does anything. But I do know that when I sit in silence, focusing on my breath, letting the swirl of fear and pain settle just for a moment—I feel more human. Even if all I’ve done is survive another hour of the unknown.

Maybe that’s all prayer ever needed to be.

A space to let go.

A moment to breathe.

A way to keep going, even when nothing makes sense.