The Power of Prayer

My grandparents on both sides were Jewish, one set secreting their religion away except on Wednesdays and Saturdays because it was politic given their place in their moneyed community. The other set of grandparents converted in the hopes it’d save them from the inequity of concentration camp slavery and death. No matter what, every Sunday my grandparents were Catholic, a practical concession of faith that resulted in my dad being a cynical agnostic and my mother a frenetic believer.

Even people without faith have a faith story.

Two thirds of my childhood was spent in a Mormon neighborhood. My brother and I would watch them go to church in their wards, men and boys in the unofficial uniform of blue-slacks-and-white-collared-shirt-with-tie and the women and girls in floral-dresses-white-hose-and-low-practical-heels. They looked so clean and put-together, so composed, calm, and capable. Our family looked vaguely like The Simpsons, if Marge were on a prolonged European vacation and the house was left to Homer to care for (note: I would’ve been Lisa). The contrast was too much for my brother to handle. By the time he was 12 he had found a sponsor family and was wearing white-and-blue, too.