Since I’ve been listening to books on CD during my commute, I find myself narrating every damn thing I do throughout the day in the pros style of the book I happen to be listening to at the time.  I kind of enjoy it because it makes my daily activity more interesting and even book-worthy.  I thought to myself the other day after a particularly satisfying bout of imaginary pros that I should start writing my xangas in a more novel-esque pros style.  I then sat down this evening and realized that that’s a stupid idea.

I recently finished No Country for Old Men by Cormac McCarthy.  Although I did not particularly like how the story turned out, that guy has the most bad ass pros style I have ever heard.  Granted, I don’t do a lot of reading, so that’s not saying much.  Now I’ve moved on to The Memory of Running by Ron McClarty which is the story of a fat man who looses both of his parents in a car accident and begins riding his old bike from his childhood accross the country to find his pschitzophranic sister.  Sound odd?  It’s been pretty good so far.

As I finished up in the bathroom the other day, it dawned on me.  What is prayer to me?  As a young boy, I remember eagerly praying for a new bicycle, or whatever.  I also remember sitting in a quiet room for long periods of time desperately hoping for God to speak to me.  Naturally, my prayers, whatever they happened to be, were never answered (in the way that I had hoped), and God never did speak to me (even though I was probably expecting a deep voice coming down from the heaven’s much like Bill Cosby’s “Noah” bit).

In any case, over the years, such results may have warped my perception of prayer and the reason for it.  Maybe the prayer will be answered, maybe it won’t.  If it is, I’ll be thankful for it, but if it isn’t?–Well, I never put much stock in it to begin with. 

These thoughts were exacerbated when I attended a Bible study for the first time last night that was unlike any I had been to for many years.  The first half an hour was spent taking prayer requests and then laying hands on each person with a request and praying for them individually.  I’m talking the, open, feel guilty if you don’t take a turn, prayer.  I’m not a fan.  I never have been.  I’ll probably keep going to the study because the emphasis contrasts the Lutheran studies that I’ve become accustomed to and I like to get different perspectives on things.  I just wish we could cut the amount of prayer in half, if not down to a quarter.

It’s Friday evening.  I’m heading west down I-80 in a minivan with the Somer family sans Tara.  The explanation for such a situation is probably fairly obvious.  The family and I are headed out to Park City for vacation/visiting Tara.  More of a vacation for them and job searching for me.  It is at some point during this car ride that I start to consider the in-law.  I think for the first year or our relationship, I was quite fond of Tara’s parents–probably mostly because I was happy to be accepted.  Now, however, with the wedding growing near, I must admit that I can now understand the discord between son/dauther in-law and mother/father in-law that is so commonly satired in sit-coms.  To be clear, I would not say that I dislike Tara’s parents in the slightest.  It’s just that more and more often I find myself wondering (Why?) in response to a statement or decision that has been made.  The way her mother says during meals: “I would have some more potatoes” instead of: “Please pass the potatoes”, or the way she ends every statment with “…and that”.  Then of course theres how she wants to make a wedding reception rule that all guests must be seated while drinking lest a drink be spilled down Tara’s dress.  For Christ’s sake! 

The other day Tara was telling her mother how they could just come visit us for their vacations in the future to save money on hotel/condos.  Perhaps feeling the wine already, I quickly said “Shh!”  Her mother laughed her ass off until she was red in the face.  I suppose these in-laws will be OK.