I do not understand the prayers of jumbled letters I throw in the direction of whoever will listen. I pray them anyway knowing that in the praying some ways perish and new ways appear in the along. I pray them for the possible, rare arrival of some peace, my heart communing with the stillness of a morning. I pray them to be less troubled by the persistent roar of the ungodly seeking to destroy the change of mystery. I pray them to rebuke my anger before it moves and wreaks destruction on the loves I love. I pray them tumbling from my lips to remind myself: I am not alone yearning for righteousness. I pray them to negotiate with myself hoping for a lessening of my participation in tyranny. I pray them not to be humble or prideful but simply to sort the jumble and get on with my life.