This prayer was said long enough ago that I don’t mind posting about it here. I was in—it’s safe to say—a period of incredible spiritual desolation. A friend of mine, who I hadn’t seen in years, messaged me asking me to pray for her. I won’t say what for, but she was having a very hard time. And while at this time I was experiencing a lot of doubt about prayer and its efficacy, I would always say a prayer for someone who asked. I thought, “Maybe this time will be different?”

At any rate, this is the prayer I said and recorded shortly after with certain key details omitted for the sake of confidentiality and privacy. I post it here to show you all what spiritual desolation is like, and to help foster a spirit of openness where people don’t feel so ashamed of these things. I kept these feelings locked in a closet for some time, but then is this not a disservice to those who struggle similarly? I hope you find it edifying.

“I know we haven’t spoken in a while. I’ve been far from perfect. I’ve had my issues with … I’ve felt disillusioned. I’ve been confused. I haven’t felt like you are there. Maybe you are, and maybe you aren’t. If you are, I know you know I care. I just want to feel peace and haven’t been convinced that this is all there is to it. They say this is the fullness of truth, but I know it’s not, and in my mind, I know you are so much more. But I’m not here to talk about me. I just wanted to clear that up and address the elephant in the room.

I’m here because [a friend] asked me to be. They’ve been having a bit of a rough time. I know life has sometimes been unkind to them, as it has been lately. And they asked me to pray for them. I’ll admit, I’ve often wondered why it makes a difference as there is no changing your mind. But, for whatever reason, when life gets difficult, and it is difficult, we cry out for mercy, and for what? What is this all-too-human habit of crying out to God even when it seems like he’s not there? The idea is absurd, but it feels so natural.

My thought is, whatever theological consequence your death and resurrection may or may not have had, I do believe that if I went back in time to speak to you, I would find a man who took pity and showed compassion. It is said that you wept, after all. You know I’m not the biggest lover of the Rosary, but there is one mystery that I’ve always found interesting: the Agony in the Garden. I know that you had a lot on your mind last night: you had a long way to carry your Cross that day. But there is one description of the event that has piqued my interest: ‘Jesus contemplates the sins of the world.’ In you, at the very least, I see someone like me; that is, someone who feels deeply. Someone who looks at the world and is wearied by the suffering he sees. And we want it to stop. I suppose we’re a bit like Buddha. But in your case, perhaps you are more: you did something about it, something grueling and painful. You suffered. And in my honest opinion, God would hardly be worth following if he had not suffered as well. The notion that you are who you claim to be and that you’ve walked in our shoes—frankly if it weren’t for that, my religion wouldn’t be worth anything at all.

You don’t deserve to suffer, but neither do they. This is not just punishment. How could it be when there is no rhyme or reason to it? The good suffer, the wicked prosper, and only sometimes do we see just recompense in this life. How could it be when they don’t even know what it is for? We rarely do.

We speak of your passion as being an example of mercy, not of justice. We juxtapose the two like they are somehow opposites. Unrestrained justice means that we all go to Hell, but I do not believe this. How could I? That God would create all of this only to damn his creation: it’s unthinkable! So, I must believe that, in a strange way, even your compassion is just: that you, at once, both hold us accountable and bring us to salvation. I wouldn’t wish damnation on anybody: I couldn’t believe that anyone truly deserves it. For what is a wicked human being if not a simple, broken person? I must believe that you can surely fix them. Or else, what was this for? If a single soul burns forever in Hell, is this not a tragedy? Is this not an imperfection—even a defect—in your creation, in your providence, in your designs?

So, I ask that they be shown compassion. They deserves it, but not because she’s made in your image, not because they’re good or bad or a healthy mix. They deserve it because she has the capacity to feel. They deserve it because she was given this life and deserves the chance to make it whole. Because, in light of whatever grace you have shown us, it doesn’t entirely matter what we do or don’t do. If they is to be shown love or charity at all, either by you or by me, then it is not despite her imperfections but even accounting for them.

I have a hard time loving perfection. Imperfection makes a better story: you cannot have a story without conflict, be it internal or external. One cannot imagine a worthy character without it. Even you had the difficulties of being human to contend with. This is what makes a great story. Perhaps that’s all we are in the end: stories. So, I ask, that you make their story a good one because they’re as flawed and every bit as deserving of love and happiness as anyone else.”