We bowed our heads before the meal
of chili and fresh bread. Our host
said, “Dear, would you say grace tonight?”
And then the teenager stammered,
mumbled “Dear God,” half distracted.
Before we knew it she gave thanks
for her fashionable new clothes,
asked that her father’s installation
of a flat-screen TV be done
smoothly, according to His will,
later in the evening. “Now that’s
an adolescent prayer!” I thought,
glad to be glad for even that.
Smiled on the inside. Cool with it.
Parents were clearly embarrassed,
and gave a requisite response
of caught-off-guard disappointment.
The grandfather, though, was the one
most beautiful, saying “Thank you,
dear,” and shrugging it far away.
“Since it’s God we’re talking about,”
he continued, “it’s easily
imaginable – isn’t it? –
that He has heard it all before.
We pray as the people we are.
And teen-aged prayers? Well, whatever.”
He smiled, having settled it all,
and turned gratefully to chili.