The Semantics of Prayer

By Jill MacGregor

My mom once told me “Don’t pray for patience because you’ll be shown how to be patient in ways you never wanted to imagine.”

I try to never assume. Sometimes saying a prayer fills me with the same feeling I get before I assemble a wall unit from IKEA. My instructions will be in pictures not words, with symbols I may not understand and 9 times out of 10—I’m going to have to get my drill out and make the hole on the other side of where it currently resides. I usually find out that I’ve done something upside down, post hole drilling, of course.

I have been known to misinterpret.

I unfortunately have come to think of God as a bit of a trickster (perhaps even Scandinavian…see: GØD), possibly a lawyer (sorry, lawyer friends), always looking for the loophole—Sometimes looking for the exquisite pain that could accompany the answer to a prayer because I left out something obvious and critical. From a very early age I felt if I did not specify every particular of my prayer that God might dupe me on a technicality.

It would have been my own fault for not having being specific.

Because of that, I have a tendency to make each prayer sound a bit like a deli order. Since I want my sandwich the way I want it and so there are no misunderstandings I have a tendency to list all the withs and withouts in extreme detail. It may sound something like this:

“Dear God. I would like to meet Mr. Right. And not the Mr. Right who starts out like Mr. Right only to turn into Mr. Wrong by the end of the movie. I would like to meet someone who loves me. I would like to meet a man who loves me.” And because I may be called later on being vague, I add,” And he’s not married. Or gay. Or dead. Or in prison.” And because I may only have myself to blame, I add, “I would like to love him back.”

And because sometimes God only gives me half an ear due to multi-tasking, I add: “And I would like him to be my height or taller because we’ve already tried the shorter thing and no one’s really happy. And no toupee. I can do bald. Bald’s ok, but no comb over. And I’d like him to have a job that makes as much as me or more because we know how weird it gets when he finds out I make more than he does. Not everyone is a carpenter. Ha. (awkward pause) It’s ok if he is a carpenter. As long as his hands are clean.”

I reflect. I wonder, if I were God, how could I screw me?

Countless times, I’ve made God the bad genie who just granted me three wishes only to catch me in my greediness and deliver the pure and unadulterated crap I accidentally wished for in my haste.

I pause and try to find some way that God might misrepresent my wishes, because I realize that if he only followed my instructions to the letter, everything would be perfect.

And I got to tell you…between you and I, God might be coasting on thin ice. Sure, I’ve experienced the joy of unanswered prayers. Somebody got busy and didn’t clear the list of to-do’s that day and it just happened to work out in my favor anyhow.

I’m sure I offered up a begrudging *thank you* in response…since the situation didn’t follow my specifications.

If only God would listen…

Poor God. Reading whatever he wishes into my prayers, right or wrong.

Poor God. Not understanding what needs to happen to make me happy. I’m here telling him, if only he’d pay attention. I am detailed for a reason.

Poor God. I don’t know what else I can do to help him. (tired smile)

Poor God. If only he were as smart as me.