Quit arguing and start the praying!

When I was little, spending the night with my grandparents was my favorite thing to do.

I loved Grandma's pancakes, her homemade fudge, sugar cookies and especially her cream-laced coffee.

But my favorite thing about staying with my grandparents was listening to the prayers that they conducted each night. "Lord," Grandma would call out loud, "please be with Olivia and her heathen boys."

"Yes, Lord," Grandpa would echo.

"And, Lord, you know that Virginia has troubles in her marriage. Make that no-good man of hers get off of the booze."

"Yes, Lord," again from Grandpa.

Not only was it a way to learn about a prayer life, but I also picked up some good family gossip in the process.

I've been a praying person ever since. Praying for this, and praying for that, and ending conversations with friends in need with a heart-felt "I'll pray for you."

Although my dear friend Eunice is a heck of a gal, she was never much of a pray-er. "It just wouldn't work for me," she'd often say. "If I called out to God, an acorn would fall from the sky and plunk me on the head."

"Au contraire," I used to preach to her. "If you ever called out to God, He'd halt all activity in heaven as He'd surely say, 'Wait a minute, there's one coming in from Eunice. Man the heavenly phones!'"

But Eunice couldn't be convinced. Yet, when it came time to sell her house in a sluggish market, she called me right away. "Didn't you bury a statue of St. Joseph in your backyard when you sold your house?"

"You bet I did," I responded. "I placed him in the ground as per the Let St. Joseph sell your house instructions, said some prayers, and it sold within the next week."

"Come over and do that for us, will ya?"

Say no more. Within the hour I was in her backyard with a shovel in one hand, and a little statue of St. Joseph in the other. After we planted him in a prominent spot facing the house, I prepared to pray.

Knowing that Eunice is as loathe to being all touchy-feely as she is to praying, I thought I'd get the biggest bang for my buck.

"Hold my hand, Eunice." "No," she responded in her cute and curt way.

"Do you want this house to sell or don't you?" I asked as I enjoyed watching her squirm.

"Oh, all right, here!" she said as she jabbed her hand at me, and it was obvious that she was as uncomfortable as a little boy taking the hand of his brother during the Our Father.

"Oh Lord!" I called out in a loud voice reminiscent of a minister during an old-fashioned prayer service. "Lord, we beseech thee. Please look down on this, your humble servant, Eunice."

"Are you kidding me?" Eunice asked as she opened one eye to peek at me.

Ignoring her, I added, "Lord, you know her heart. Ye forgiveth the bowels of iniquity." "That is not on the prayer card." "I don't need a card," I protested. " know how to pray."

"Well, you don't have to say beseech, do you?"

"Do you want to do this?"

"Oh!" she said with disgust, and I prayed even stronger and louder and added in stuff about walking through the valley of the shadow of death and the like, quoted almost every piece of Scripture that I could think of and wrapped it up with a quick and heartfelt, "So please send Eunice a buyer for her house. Amen."

Call it coincidence if you want to, but her house sold within the next week and Eunice packed her wares and moved off to a town in a neighboring state.

She bought a house there, enjoyed it for a while and when she decided to put it on the market, she went out and bought another house-selling kit from the Bible supply store. As she stood in the backyard next to her shovel and the fresh hole that she'd just dug for St. Joseph, she called me on her cell.

"What sort of prayer am I supposed to say?" she asked with sincerity. "If I were to pray, 'Come on, St. Joseph, do your thing. Go, St. Joe, go!' would that be OK?"

You know, if an acorn had fallen from the heavens and plunked her smack dab on the head, I would not have been at all surprised.

Lori Clinch is the mother of four sons and the author of the book "Are We There Yet?" You can reach her at www.loriclinch. com.