PRAYing it forward

 

Nathan Duq

I am starting to like prayers.

During one Sunday service in January, a lack of cellular signal deprived me of my usual digital distractions. I normally rely on my phone to keep my hands busy and prevent myself from fidgeting during the sermon. Without it, I was forced to engage more fully with the liturgy. When the time for prayer arrived, I stood there with no expectations and found myself unexpectedly drawn in. I experienced a familiar intimacy, seeking comfort in stillness rather than a screen. In that focused silence, I truly heard our pastor pray for a fellow churchmate’s success. I was deeply moved by how he wove encouragement and genuine trust in that person’s abilities into his prayer, a moment of sincerity I might otherwise have missed.

My whole life, I have lived inside prayers: family prayers, church prayers, school prayers, Sunday school prayers. They were always present, wearisome, and expected. Then it hit me. My pastor’s prayer reminded me of my parents.

The moment they close their eyes and bow their heads, something shifts. Their presence changes, as if the world fades and only God remains before them. What deepens this is that their prayers are never prepared. They stand before people, and before God, without a script. They speak from instinct, from attentiveness to those listening, and from a careful sensing of what God might want to say in that exact moment. All this unfolds within minutes. It is demanding work, yet deeply rewarding, especially when faith feels as though it is passed hand to hand after the final “Amen.”

With my mother, prayer arrives as calm and tenderness in every word. She becomes more expressive, yet never careless. Each sentence lands with intention. In life, she is a woman of few words, reserved and quiet. But in prayer, her voice carries weight. I believe her words are shaped by the burdened life she has endured, anointed not only by the Holy Spirit but also by the small, persistent hopes she has carried and fought for while she painstakingly yearned for a better life, surviving on the lower rung of society. Perhaps prayer is her refuge during unannounced trouble, that in moments where she is finally leading one in front of many, God touches her words with compassion, using them to heal others as He once healed her.

My father, by contrast, prays with intensity and force. In daily life, he is loud and expressive, often masking care with humor or frustration. Yet when his eyes close and his brow tightens, everything else falls away. What remains is a steady, encouraging voice, no longer joking or sharp, but anchored in faith. In minutes, he becomes both vulnerable and firm. He offers empathy and strength, giving people the humanity and hope they need before a service begins or as they prepare to return home. Perhaps prayer is his only space for emotion, a place where the world’s cruelty cannot reach him.

In these moments, when both of them offer their voices, courage, and tested faith, I hear the purest form of speech I know. It is unfiltered, emotional, faithful, and deeply human, a weaving of earthly longing lifted toward the One they cannot see, yet believe in completely.

Maybe the prayers that linger most come from those whose faith has been tested time and again. I do not believe that prayers are only for the most devoted, but that they are an instinctual avenue when things become too complex to be understood by our worldly minds and feeble bodies. Whether one believes that prayers can move mountains or not, prayer, in its truest and most human form, becomes something more: a steady mantra that strengthens the heart despite doubt, a final leap of faith held tightly when pushed beyond the ledge, a self-assurance that our problems are not isolated but a universal experience that can be solved through faith, or a quiet offering of hope for others who are starting to lose theirs.

I never disliked prayer, but I often found it tedious, having rarely seen it practiced with the conviction my parents embodied. Truly listening to our pastor that Sunday morning, rather than simply following along with closed eyes, gave me a new perspective.

I realized my parents are only two among many who, having reached the limits of their own strength, find solace in humbling themselves before God. In that humility comes relief, allowing us to be gentler with ourselves. By surrendering our burdens to a higher power, we are freed to act within our means, comforted by the belief that we are watched over and redirected.

I always knew my parents taught my brothers and me to pray for protection. But perhaps, beneath that, they were teaching me how to pray so that one day I, too, might become a beacon of faith, as they once were for me.