Teaching My Daughter to Pray
I want to teach my daughter to pray &emdash;
to say the right words
in the quiet of her breathing;
to say nothing
when words will only fail;
to forgive herself
when she cannot pray,
sitting in the dirty linen of her self-loathing,
as I do mine, sometimes.
I want to give her a place to go
where she will meet Jesus
after paddling slowly down a small river,
following slow currents to a house of flowers
by the still, turquoise waters rippling in the sun,
reflecting green marble cliffs
and the meadow of Indian paintbrush.
But I cannot plant her this house,
draw her a map,
take her in my boat.
She must go somewhere else,
follow whatever winds or currents she may find
in the stillness of her breathing ,
in the anger of her breath.
I am not her guide.
I hold her thin fingers at church
before communion. She looks at me
and moves closer
seeking a sign of peace.
by Paul Totah