like a prayer

Tonight, my father, the agnostic doctor, told me he's praying for me. When did I become something to be prayed for? And when did he start praying?

While I've lost all faith in the present knowledge of modern medicine and never really had any in a misaligned qi, prayer never even occurred to me. Even as I was reading all the C. S. Lewis Christian apologetica, Religion seemed less real than Narnia. Prayer gets filed away alongside witchcraft, superstition, The Secret and unbalanced gall bladder qi. My migraines are what's real and immediate, and even with this unending bout that feels like forever, my pain has boundaries and practical consequences and if not solutions, at least ways of maintaining myself and my life. Prayer seems so hopeless, like a declaration of giving up; which is funny considering how narcissistic it seems, having this idea that a cosmic being needs only your reminder to fix what ails you. I do have a sense of some greater, divine order to things. It's not so concrete as to call it a belief, but right now my faith and spirituality are much more concentrated on flowing through and beyond this thing. Migraines are on the list of things we silly humans haven't figured out yet, and until we do (hopefully but not expectedly in my lifetime), I have to make the most of this portion of my existence. I'll take my good hours and do things that make me feel happy and productive. I'll continue seeing doctors and witchdoctors alike. I'll try to take care of myself and my dog and the embers of my long-term ambitions as long as we three require tending. And hopefully, Spaghetti Monster willing, this will end.