Prayer’s Turning Point

For much of my life, prayer came easily because it always came in the form of words. Being human, words come naturally to me. Some prayers were placed within me and nurtured by years of faithful repetition.

Our Father.

Hail Mary.

Other word-prayers were more spontaneous, more conversational.

Please help with this.

Thank you for that.

There was comfort in this kind of prayer. It felt clear and structured. I imagined a God who listened closely, weighed each request, heard every word, and responded in some way. Prayer was something I did. Something I offered. Something I could recognize and hold onto.

Then, through the wisdom of spiritual voices I trust, I was invited into a different way of praying. Sr. Elizabeth Johnson described prayer as something as simple and childlike as turning toward God and placing everything into God’s hands. Fr. Richard Rohr spoke of prayer as a way of being, a quiet awareness of God’s presence. Fr. Thomas Keating described contemplative prayer as resting in God, beyond words.

Prayer became quieter, with fewer words, sometimes even wordless. I began to imagine God less as a distant listener, and more as a Presence. A Spirit abiding within and around me. The words that once came so easily began to feel too small. There were things I carried that language could not fully express. In the silence, something else seemed to happen. A kind of unspoken communion.

But my story does not settle there.

Because just when I begin to feel at home in this new kind of wordless prayer, life interrupts. A restless night comes. A worry returns. And without thinking, I reach again for the prayers that have always been there.

Our Father.

Hail Mary.

The familiar words return like old friends. And in these moments, everything I thought I understood about silence and stillness fades into the background.

What I am beginning to see is this: prayer is not about choosing the right method. It is not about words or silence, structure or stillness. Prayer is simply turning your attention toward God.  Like a sunflower that follows the sun across the sky, prayer is an intentional turning.

Some days, that turning is full of words. Other days, it is quiet and contemplative. And sometimes, it is nothing more than a restless heart that cannot quite settle.

God receives it all.

It reminds me of something simple and human. After decades of marriage, my husband can often read what I am feeling without a single word spoken. He sees it in my face. He knows something is up, even when I think I am hiding it.

If another person can know me that well, how much more does God?

Perhaps prayer is not about explaining ourselves, but about being known. Not about mastering a practice, but about turning, again and again, to the One who already reads our face.