ROBIN WRITES: Learning to Pray

By Editor | April 21, 2026 |

From the first sing-song prayers of childhood to the fervent pleas of hurting hearts, I learned how to talk to God from examples all around me.
It started as a toddler. Jesus loved me, this I knew, and I thanked Him every night. Folded hands. Scrunched eyes. Simple words repeated with an innocent heart.
At mealtimes, Mom said the prayer. Dad sighed at the delay; he was hungry. We kids trained our slitted eyes on the fried chicken, wanting to be the first to reach out and grab the drumstick.
But Mom took her time. Her prayers were confident, calm, and soft. Hearing her pray was like listening to a love song.
She talked to Him as if He were sitting at our table, leaning in with a smile, and squeezing her shoulder.
Throughout my childhood, adults at church taught me many ways, reasons, and forms of praying.
I heard prayers from men in both fancy suits and limp overalls. From grandmas with their Bible clutched in liver-spotted hands and Moms whispering harried thanks and earnest pleas for patience while shushing her kids along the pew.
Every prayer—and pray-er—gave me insight into the outer lives and inner struggles of our neighbors. Worries wound around declarations of blessings. Assurances of God’s faithfulness weaved tiny strands of strength throughout the fraying struggles of daily life.
Our preacher prayed the first prayer of Sunday morning. Brother Bass stepped up to the podium after the first song of the day and reached his arms toward us, beckoning us to stand.
“Every head bowed. Every eye closed,” he intoned, as if directing holy traffic.
His voice boomed in a deep bass and belted his prayer around the room as if our church were as big as one of the fancy ones in town.
I knew that it would start with thankfulness for our gathering on “this fine day,” then move into a mini sermon of Brother Bass’s desire for his congregation. After several minutes, the prayer was addressed to Heaven “in Jesus’ name” and closed with a powerful AMEN.
It was time for the sermon.
Tracy was the go-to person to lead us in the closing prayer. We kids groaned when he was called on to pray, because we knew it would be ages until his “amen” set us free.
Tracy Reed was a stalwart prayer. A tall man, 40-ish, with thick, black glasses, I remember him always in the same gray suit. It hung from him stiffly, as if still on the hanger, and the pant legs pooled against his Sunday-shined shoes.
He stood, pushed his glasses back with fervent determination, and raised his head slightly. He clasped his hands behind his back. And then, as if buoyed by holy waters, Tracy began bouncing up and down. His shoes bent and wrinkled as he lifted his heels.
If I squinted through scrunched eyes, I saw him grow taller, shorter, taller, shorter. He jiggled in a rhythm, and his prayer sailed upward, circled the sanctuary on booming sound waves, and finally rose Heavenward.
My stomach rumbled in harmony with his eternally long closing prayer. Kids sighed. Some adults began gathering up their Sunday bulletins, saggy Bibles, and quietly laid down their cardboard fans (Bible-shaped advertisements for a local funeral home, stapled to a popsicle stick).
But Tracy Reed knew the limits of our patience as well as he knew his Savior. At the tick of noon, he wrapped up his exhortations and requests. He stopped bouncing, slammed down his soles to punctuate his “AMEN!” and set the congregation free.
Prayers both heartfelt and dramatic embroidered my childhood with humility, faith, and unwavering trust in a listening God. I learned how to talk to Him through their examples, and smile to know those pray-ers still live in my heart.
–––––––––––––
■ Robin is a freelance columnist who lives and writes in Quincy, Illinois. Contact her at [email protected].