When I was young I would lay in bed,
Look up at the ceiling, and talk to God.
I did not lay me down to sleep, not me,
I just talked to God as if he was there,
Knowing I was more than speaking to air.
But if you want to call it prayer, then do.
All I know is what I in darkness said
Came from my youthful heart and head,
And it matters not if you find that odd
Because my God was real to me, you see.

I felt so free to tell God all. I would share
What I needed, wanted, when I was hurt.
And more than once, I must admit
I’d raise a fuss and even complain
That God should act to ease my pain.
He knew me well and I knew him.
Sometimes I’d even in anger dare
To tell God off and doubt his care.
But God was my friend and I was alert
That I was the one who had to submit.

I still talk to God, all alone in my bed,
But age adds more layers to our belief.
I am more formal and know the score.
And, yes, I sometimes have the feeling
That all my prayers bounce off the ceiling.
And leave me reeling, prone to doubt.
But when our talks to understanding led
As I learned to listen more than talk instead,
My deepest deepest question found relief:
My God of childhood still loves me more.