Last Night I Dropped To My Knees And Prayed For The First Time Ever


Courtesy of The Stone Family

I don’t write about Faith much. Possibly because it’s just not one of the topics I’m very comfortable discussing in public, but also possibly because my own religion of practice happens to be Judaism and so while I’ll happily share my traditions, discussions of prayer, faith, and all those deeper, more personal elements of religion often leave me feeling uncomfortable or at worst, disrespectful. Afterall, only 2% of the world’s population shares my beliefs, so I’m almost always in the minority.

It’s also why, when my friends and loved ones are going through hard times, even when they ask for prayers directly, I’ll usually say: “I’m thinking of you” or “Sending you love”. And I am. It’s true. I hurt deeply when those who I love are hurting, but I don’t pray. I’m more likely to wish on an eyelash than talk to G-d directly. I’m a Jewish girl who went to Catholic School. My faith, like most, is complicated. My lack of prayer isn’t for a lack of belief, although I wouldn’t say I claim to have any idea what that entity is that I believe in exactly, but I know I believe in something greater than myself. It’s just that I believe and celebrate in my own way, and that way has rarely (if ever) included prayer outside of the synagogue or a holiday celebration.

My friend Diana has had one hell of a couple of years, from the loss of her twin boys at 20 weeks pregnant last May after a lengthy physical and emotional battle to save them, to deciding adoption was going to be the best way to expand their family, to learning adoption was likely not going to be an option for them, to finally, finally, having a full-term pregnancy and giving birth to her son Kaden last week. And then, just when you thought the universe could not possibly have anything more to dish out to my beautiful, loving, and awe-inspiring friend, we learned that the lower ventricles of Kaden’s heart were not functioning as they should, and that while there is a slim chance that his still-forming heart can heal itself, it is very possible that Diana’s sweet one-week-old boy will need a heart transplant. A heart transplant. My breath catches in my throat just typing those words, thinking of my friend in the NICU with her son, considering these terrifying options.

Like so many of us do here in the blogosphere when we don’t know where else to turn, Diana wrote these words on her website last night, a plea of sorts, a Mother desperate to help her baby – [continue reading…]

Feed Me Seymour