When I was a little Catholic kid, I knew to pray when I really wanted something, especially toys. The clearest praying memory I have had nothing to do with toys.
The picture imprinted on my mind is me sitting in the back seat of our car, my mom in the front passenger seat with tears rolling down her face. I was nine years old, and it was the first time I had ever seen her cry.
We had just left the hospital after a visit with her father, who was dying. My prayer that day was that my grandfather would live.
Not because I loved him, because he wasn't very lovable, but because I couldn't bear to see my mother hurting. Desperate for her to stop crying, I promised god that if "Daddy Tom" lived, I would become a nun.
My grandfather lived. My mom stopped crying.