The Prayer She Made Up

Birdie sat on the edge of her bed with her hands folded the way she'd seen people do it — fingers laced together, thumbs pointing up like two little chimneys. She squeezed her eyes shut so tight that she saw swirly purple shapes behind her eyelids.

"Dear God," she began.

Then she stopped.

She opened one eye. Then the other. She looked at her hands. She unfolded them, folded them again, and tried once more.

"Dear God..."

Nothing came.

The problem was that Birdie didn't know what came next. At her cousin Marguerite's house, the whole family said a prayer before dinner — a real one, with fancy words that rhymed and everything. They all spoke together like a choir, and they never stumbled, not once. Even Marguerite's little brother Henri, who was only four and still called spaghetti "pasketti," knew every single word.

Birdie did not know every single word. She did not know any of the words. She had tried to mumble along, moving her lips the way you do when you don't know the lyrics to a song, but Marguerite had noticed.

"You don't know it?" Marguerite had whispered, not mean, just surprised.

And Birdie had felt her cheeks go hot as two toaster pastries.

Now it was nighttime, and she was home in her own room with the glow-in-the-dark stars on her ceiling that didn't really glow anymore, and she wanted to try. She wanted to talk to God the way Marguerite's family did — polished and proper and all together.

But she didn't have the words.

So Birdie sat there a good long while. And then, because she was Birdie and Birdie was not someone who liked to sit still for a good long while, she just started talking.

"Okay, God? Hi. It's Birdie. I live on Prospect Street, the yellow house, if you need to know. I don't know the prayer. The real one. I tried to learn it at Marguerite's, but they go really fast and also I was distracted by the rolls because they had butter already inside them, which I didn't know was possible."

She paused. Took a breath.

"I don't even know if you can hear me if I say it wrong. Like maybe there's a password and I don't have it. That would be kind of unfair, honestly. Just so you know."

She opened her eyes and looked at the ceiling. The stars up there were stuck in no particular pattern. She had put them up herself, and they looked nothing like real constellations, but she liked them anyway.

"Also," she continued, "I have a complaint."

She sat up straighter, because complaints felt like they should be delivered with good posture.

"Today at recess, Marcus Greer said my shoes were ugly. They are NOT ugly. They have RAINBOWS on them. Rainbows, God. You invented those! So if my shoes are ugly, that's kind of on you."

She thought about this for a second.

"No offense."

She pulled her blanket over her lap and kept going. "Another thing. How come cats purr but dogs don't? Dogs would like to purr. I can tell. And how come the sun has to be SO hot? It could be a little less hot and still do its job. I'm just saying, there's room for improvement."

Now she was on a roll, and Birdie on a roll was like a marble on a slide — there was no stopping her.

"Thank you for ladybugs. They're doing a great job. Thank you for Tuesdays because Tuesday is pizza day. Thank you for my mom even though she makes me wear a coat when it's not even that cold. She means well. You probably know that."

She chewed on her lip.

"Can you help my grandpa's knee? It makes a sound like a door in a haunted house, and he says it's fine, but I don't think knees are supposed to talk. If you could just — oil it or whatever you do — that would be good."

Birdie pulled her blanket all the way up to her chin. Her voice got a little quieter.

"And one more thing. Sometimes... sometimes I feel like everybody knows the right words for things except me. Like there's a script and they all got a copy and I was absent that day. Marguerite knows the prayer. Josephine in my class always knows the answer. Even Henri — HENRI, God — knows what to say, and he can't even tie his shoes yet."

She was quiet for a moment.

"I just don't want to be the kid who's always making it up as she goes."

She sighed. It was a big sigh for a small person. The kind of sigh that uses your whole chest.

Then she said, "Okay. That's it. Goodnight. Amen. Or — wait, does amen go at the end? I'm putting it at the end. Amen."

She flopped back on her pillow.

The next Sunday, Birdie's mom took her to visit Grandpa, and wouldn't you know it, Marguerite's family was there too, because Marguerite's mom and Birdie's mom were sisters, and sisters have a way of showing up at the same place with casseroles.

Before lunch, Marguerite's dad said, "Let's say grace."

Everyone folded their hands. Birdie folded hers too. Her stomach tightened like a fist.

The family began to speak, and the words flowed out smooth and easy, the way water moves over river stones. Birdie listened. She caught a few words here and there — grateful and blessings and amen — but the rest slipped by like fish she couldn't grab.

When it was over, she kept her eyes down.

But then Grandpa leaned over. His chair creaked. His knee made that haunted-house sound.

"Birdie," he said, low and quiet, just for her. "You know, when I was your age, I didn't know that prayer either."

Birdie looked up. "You didn't?"

"Nope. Didn't learn it till I was about twelve. Before that, I just told God what was on my mind. Talked to Him like I'd talk to a friend sitting right next to me."

"But that's not a real prayer," Birdie said.

Grandpa leaned back. His eyes got that soft, crinkly look, like old paper that's been folded and unfolded a hundred times.

"Who told you that?"

Birdie opened her mouth. Then she closed it. Nobody had told her that, actually. She had just assumed.

"Some of the best prayers I ever said," Grandpa went on, "were the ones I made up. The messy ones. The ones where I complained about the weather and asked why mosquitoes had to exist."

"I asked about the sun being too hot," Birdie whispered.

Grandpa grinned. "See? You're already better at it than I was."

Birdie felt something shift inside her chest. It was small and warm, like a marble that had been sitting in the sun — one of those smooth glass ones with a ribbon of color curled up in its center.

That night, back in her own room, under the glow-in-the-dark stars that didn't glow, Birdie folded her hands again. Thumbs up like two little chimneys.

"Hi, God. It's Birdie again. Prospect Street. Yellow house. You probably remember."

She smiled.

"So. Today was pretty good. The casserole was only okay, but the company was really nice, which I think matters more. Grandpa's knee is still haunted. Keep working on that, please."

She wiggled her toes under the blanket.

"Thank you for grandpas. Thank you for sisters who show up with casseroles. And thank you for letting me talk to you like this — just like this — even though I don't know the fancy words."

She took a breath. The room was dark and warm and perfectly quiet.

"Actually, I have one more question. Do you like ladybugs as much as I do? I bet you do. You made their spots so small and perfect. That must have taken forever."

She yawned.

"Okay. Goodnight. Amen."

She closed her eyes.

And somewhere between goodnight and sleep, Birdie could have sworn those old stars on her ceiling flickered, just once, soft and green — like the whole room was saying amen right back.