Since she went off to college two years ago, I have saved for her every twenty-five cent piece that I've received in change.
With each one, I remember my daughter in prayer. The photo was a reminder: I am praying for you; I love you. Whenever I see her, I give her the pile of quarters I've accumulated, so that she can use them to pay for laundry.
My prayers for her are simple, just a quick remembrance of my golden, distant girl. Keep her in your hand, Lord. Help her to do good work today. Bless her studies. Bless her life. Bless her. Bless.
A nun in Greece once told me that God does not need long prayers. God, she said, only wants from us what we are willing and able to give.
Praying prompted by coins is probably foolish, and silly. But it is what I have to offer, a simple trick I play, a daily reminder of love.
Prayer comes hard to me, harder than I would like to admit. I can't see this God to whom I wish to speak, so speech seems strange.
Just as I cannot see this girl--this woman--for whom I am praying. I can only hope that my unseen daughter is seen by my unseen God.
And so I hold my little coin and think of them both, committing this small amount of time, this small change, to each of them.
And I hope that my small offering might be made great, by slow accumulation, or by being magnified by the one who made us all.