Praying Agnostic

Tonight, as I was carrying my heavy Trader Joe's bag through the dark parking lot, I saw a mother and her child get out of the car next to mine. The mother wore lavendar scrubs and crocs, probably having finished a day of work at the nearby hospital, and her little boy, maybe 5 or 6, wore a bright tie-dye shirt. As she helped him climb out of her old minivan, an ambulance sped through town, its siren lifting a call of distress over the rooftops and down to our tired ears. She and her son exchanged a glance, and at once I saw his little hand sweep across his chest, making the sign of the cross. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. He knew someone needed help, and he'd been taught that every little bit counts.

I'm not religious; my parents raised me in the Methodist church and I went with the trendy Christian kids to Young Life camp in high school, but I have since come to relate more to the agnostic belief system than anything else. Religious devotion is something that I fear at times, something that I often can't help but admire, and something that I will probably never understand.

Prayer, though...prayer is something this agnostic gets. I don't know if prayers are ever answered, or if anyone is listening, but I believe in sending positive energy into the universe, and in so doing nurturing one's own soul. I like to think that every source of love, every smile, every helping hand, every tiny plea for someone else's well-being, adds to the overall good of humankind and pumps the energy we all share with new light. Just as every tragedy, every hate, every insult or ill wish, hurts us all.

As the siren faded into the distance--a passing emergency that, this time, didn't involve us--I watched the boy finish his prayer and walk off, hand in hand with his mother, to help pick out groceries for a late dinner. After a few steps, she stopped to lean down and kiss his little face, then on they went. And now, sitting here in my quiet house, I find myself wanting to pray for them...whatever that means.

Maybe there is no sense, no purpose or meaning to life, to all of our daily toils and triumphs. Or, maybe, there is something that connects us all. I'll never claim to know what's going on, to know the answer, but I will always try to do good, to treat others right, and to send love into the world--even when that means merely closing my eyes and hoping that whoever is on the other end of that siren will be OK--because to me, that seems to be what matters most.