I pray as I shop

If I need a pair of pants, I know exactly what to do.

I drive to the store. I park as close as possible to the entrance — not because I'm lazy, but because every step I don't have to take is one I save. I walk to the rack, check my size, pay, and leave. No detours. No comparative shopping. No three stores further to see if there's anything better hanging somewhere. Done.

Anyone who knows me recognizes this immediately. My wife certainly does.

Because shopping with her looks totally different. Then we walk past shop windows, go into stores without a concrete plan, pants are picked up without being tried on, they are hung back, others are taken to the fitting room, and finally — sometimes hours later — there is the conclusion: ‘This is it.’ Or not. And then we start over.

That's also shopping. Different type, but equally valid.

I'm not telling this to tease my wife. I'm telling this because one day I realized that these two ways of shopping are also two ways of living. And that my directness — which can sometimes seem blunt, which sometimes comes across as impatient — is actually also present in how I interact with Heavenly Father. In how I pray.

The direct line

I love listening to people who can pray beautifully.

People who find words for what I would never say so beautifully. Who think of everything at once — of the sick, the healthy, the community, the world, the context of prayer, the right way to address God. Who can say a prayer that feels like a poem, a conversation, and a confession all at once. I sincerely admire that. I feel built up by it when I get to experience such prayers.

But my prayers are different.

If something comes to mind — a decision, an uncertainty, a question, a worry about someone — I simply present it to Heavenly Father. Without extensive formal introduction. Without elaborate embellishment. Direct, to the point, as I would ask a wise friend. A friend I trust. A friend who already knows what lives in my heart but also appreciates hearing it from me.

Those are dozens of short prayers a day. A flash of contact. A conscious choice to involve Him in what I am experiencing at that moment.

Some people might be surprised by that. Is that enough? Is that respectful enough? Is such a fleeting prayer a 'real' prayer?

I don't value it less. On the contrary. For me, it is precisely one of the strongest signs that, whatever I do and wherever I am, I want to involve Heavenly Father. That I let Him know that I am thinking of Him. That I invite Him into my day, into my thoughts, into the small moments that no one else sees. And if He deems it necessary, that He may guide me. I trust Him enough to give Him that space.

What happens when you pray — even if you don't get an answer

Not every prayer is answered. I know that.

Not every prayer brings a clear inspiration. Not every question I ask Heavenly Father is followed by a clear hint from the Holy Spirit telling me which way I should go. I would be lying if I claimed that.

But I have learned something.

Simply by pausing to consider that there is a larger whole — something outside my own perspective, something I cannot fully grasp — something changes within me. Prayer changes me. Not always the problem, not always the situation, but how I look at it. It takes me out of myself for a moment. It reminds me that my perspective is not the only one. And in that small shift, there is often more wisdom than I initially expected.

Jesus Himself was clear about it. He told the parable of the widow who kept knocking — not because God is deaf, but to show that persistence in prayer does something to the one praying. 'That they should always pray and not give up.' (Luke 18:1). But you don't have to take my word or His word for it. Experiment. Just try it. See what changes within you.

That experiment convinced me. Not once, but hundreds of times. By praying, I bring my thoughts closer to the teachings of Jesus Christ. By praying, I align my will with something greater than myself. Not because someone forces me to do so. But because I choose it. Every single time.

And that is exactly what freedom of choice means in this story.

Giving up freedom of choice? No, on the contrary, gaining.

I want to pause here for a moment, because I notice that this is a stumbling block for many people.

There is a tension that people feel between freedom of choice on the one hand and the guidance of Heavenly Father on the other. As if it's one or the other. As if, by praying and asking for guidance, you give up a piece of your autonomy. As if believing means turning off your own judgment and blindly doing what you are told.

But that's not right. And it's important to understand why.

Philosophers distinguish between two types of freedom. Negative freedom is the freedom from — freedom from imposed restrictions, from rules, from external pressure. Positive freedom is the freedom to — the freedom to become who you want to be, to realize your potential, to achieve your deepest goals. Prayer is usually a choice for positive freedom in your life.

He who chooses to align his will with the will of Heavenly Father does indeed sometimes give something up in the short term. A choice that seemed easier. A path that was more tempting. An answer I would have preferred to hear. But what takes its place is something infinitely greater: the freedom to return to who I truly am. The freedom to make possible the eternal life that Heavenly Father has in mind for me.

That is not a loss. That is an investment.

And as a businessman, I understand investing. You're giving up something now — time, capital, energy — to get something that's worth much more in the long run. That's how it works here too. You are now investing in a relationship with Heavenly Father, in an alignment of your will with His, in the confidence that He can see the bigger picture. And in the long term, it delivers a return that no other investment can match.

The covenant we make with Him is not a restriction. It is a protection. A compass. An assurance that He knows the desire of our hearts — and that He will act accordingly.

The evening prayer: ending the day as it should be

Besides all those short, direct prayers during the day, my evening prayer is something entirely different. Of a different order.

During the day I pray quickly and specifically. In the evening I take my time.

I consciously reflect on the day. What happened? What did I see? What did I feel? Who did I meet? And a large part of that time goes to gratitude. Not the obvious gratitude for the big things. But gratitude for the evident. That the weather was nice. That I drove safely. That the food tasted good. That someone smiled for a moment.

Things you think: isn't that just normal?

But that is precisely the core. Nothing is just normal. Every life we are allowed to live here, every day we are allowed to experience, is only possible thanks to the plan of salvation of our Heavenly Father. Every hour I may walk around here, every conversation I may have, every breath — that is no coincidence. That is grace. Gratitude for the evident is not trivial. It is perhaps the most lucid thing a person can do: realize that nothing is self-evident, and be explicitly grateful for it.

The psalmist understood that. 'This is the day the LORD has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it.' (Psalm 118:24). Not just the extraordinary days. Every day.

But most of my evening prayer is not about myself.

Praying for others: the interaction that changes everything

As a bishop, I carry people with me. People going through difficult times. People who have questions to which I do not know the answer. People who suffer in ways I cannot alleviate. And in the evening, when I think back to them, they become part of my prayer.

I ask Heavenly Father — as a father — to also think of them. To give them direction. To be with them.

But then there is something crucial in how I ask that. I don't just ask Him: 'Take care of them.' That feels incomplete to me. My question is always: 'Show me how I can help them, so they notice that You are thinking of them.'

That phrasing is not accidental. Because when I think of someone in my prayer, I also begin to see what I can do. Prayer opens my eyes to my own responsibility. I am not just a spectator asking God to intervene. I am an instrument. And prayer makes me aware of that role.

This is something I deeply believe: Heavenly Father often answers our prayers for others through the hands and hearts of people willing to serve. When I pray for someone and then realize that I can do something myself — pay a visit, send a message, start a conversation — then that is no coincidence. Then that is an answer. To my prayer. Through me.

This is how I end my day. Not with a feeling of helplessness, but with a feeling of involvement. I am part of something bigger.

Hundreds of prayers, all heard

You might wonder if Heavenly Father isn't annoyed by all that praying. Hundreds of short questions every day, evening after evening the same people, the same worries, sometimes the same doubts returning.

But I believe — and I say this with conviction — that every prayer is heard.

Not always answered in the way we want. Not always responded to in the timing we expect. Not always with the result we envisioned. But heard? Always. Scripture is clear: 'Pray without ceasing.' (1 Thessalonians 5:17). That is not hyperbole. That is an invitation to keep a constant line open.

And that line never goes to a busy number.

What I have also learned — and this is perhaps the most liberating insight of all — is that we miscount unanswered prayers. We remember the pain of an unanswered prayer much more sharply than the hundreds of prayers that were answered. That is human. But it is skewed.

Look back honestly at your life. Count the moments when you asked for something and it was there. When you sought a path and one appeared. When you needed comfort and someone called. When you doubted and suddenly there was a clarity you hadn't come up with yourself. Those moments exist. Many more than we realize. And those hundreds of answered prayers should be a much stronger testimony than the despair that strikes because one prayer did not bring the expected answer.

Let the prayers that have worked be your anchor. Not the exceptions.

And if a prayer is not answered as you hoped — then trust this: the answer is there, but the timing might be different. The form might be different. And sometimes the answer is that Heavenly Father is saving something for later, something you cannot yet bear or understand. That is not indifference. That is a love that sees further than we can.

Every style is valid. Yours too.

I want to say this very clearly again, because I don't want you to read this as a plea for my way of praying.

My style is direct. Short. Often. Sometimes almost businesslike. And that works for me. That suits who I am.

But there are people who pray with beautiful, elaborate words. Who can transform a prayer into something that feels like poetry. Who need ritual and silence and repetition to connect. Who can meditate for hours before they feel they have truly prayed.

That is also good. That is also valid.

There are people who pray while walking. People who pray in silence, without words. People who pray with music. People who pray with tears. People who stammer and falter and ultimately just say: ‘I don’t know what to say, but I am here.’

That too is a prayer. And that too is heard.

Don't focus your prayer on how others do it. Focus it on what your heart tells you. That is the best advice I can give you.

Just begin

If you are not familiar with prayer — if it feels awkward, if you don't know how to start, if you wonder if anyone is listening at all — then I have one concrete suggestion.

Just do it as an experiment.

Not as an obligation. Not as a religious exercise you need to worry about. But as an honest experiment. Try it for a while — a week, a month — and see what changes. In the worst case, you've spent some time in silence and reflection. And that's not nothing in a world that never stops making noise.

But I suspect more will change.

Because prayer is not just throwing words into the air. Prayer is a choice to open your life to something greater than yourself. To admit that you don't know everything and can't do everything. To say: 'I am here, and I believe you are here too.' And in that choice, in that small step of trust, something begins to grow.

It doesn't always go smoothly the first time. Just like any skill, prayer requires practice. You will have moments when it feels like talking to a wall. When you can't stop distractions. When your thoughts go in all directions. That's normal. Don't let that discourage you. Keep practicing. Keep trying.

And in the long run, look back honestly at your life. Recognize the moments when you were guided. Build your testimony, stone by stone, prayer by prayer. Not on other people's experiences, but on your own.

That is a foundation that no one can take away from you.

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What does your prayer look like? Direct and short, extensive and meditative, or somewhere in between? I'd love to read about it in the comments. And if you're not yet familiar with it — let me know how the experiment goes.