I called John's old number, the one listed in the phone book, and no one answered. I called John's father's house, and no one answered there, either. I called his best friend, with whom I had lost touch, and there was no one there either. Then I prayed, because when all else fails, you follow instructions, and I began to pray the way my mentors have taught me: I prayed, "Help me, help me." I prayed, "Please. Please." I let go of an angstrom unit of blame. It was the hardest part. This batch of blame had more claw marks on it than most of the things I try to let go of. Blame is always my first response: Figure out whose faults things were, and then try to manipulate that person into correcting his or her behavior, so I can be more comfortable. I put a note to God in a tiny box, asking for direction. I told God I was taking my sticky fingers off the steering wheel, that He or She could be the driver, and I was be just another bozo on the bus.

Help is a prayer that is always answered. It doesn't matter how you pray -- head bowed in silence, or crying out in grief, or singing. Churches are good for prayer, but so are garages and cars and mountains and showers and dance floors. I wrote an essay for Salon years ago that began, "Some people think God is in the details, but I have come to believe that God is in the bathroom." Prayer usually means praise, or surrender, acknowledging you have run out of bullets. But there are no firm rules. Rumi wrote, "There are hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the ground." I just talk to God. I pray when people I love are sick, and I prayed when I didn't know if I should have a baby. I pray when my work is horrible, or suddenly, miraculously, better. I cried out silently every few hours during the last two years of my mother's life. I even ask for help in coping with George Bush. I pray that Bush will make decisions for the common good, which he has not done, but I pray that he might slip up and do it anyway. I do not pray for his success, as I do not pray for mine. I pray that he and his people not destroy everything on the way down.

When I am in my right mind, which is about twice a month, I pray kindly.

Sam prayed for his dad every night.

Nothing happened. I determined to take this up with God when we meet: "IT WOULD HAVE BEEN SO MUCH SKIN OFF YOUR NOSE TO GIVE MY CHILD AN ANSWER?" I couldn't believe it. Usually if you pray from the heart, you get an answer -- the phone rings or the mail comes and light gets in through the cracks, so you can see the next right thing to do. That's all you need. But nothing happened at first. I secretly believed we'd bump into John at the market, perhaps, or the movies, but we didn't. I kept calling the best friend, but it turned out I had the wrong number. Finally I found the right number, but the friend didn't know where John was either, except that John's dad had been sick, so John was probably in town taking care of him. I called John's father again. No one answered.

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