I’m not in the habit of praying much these days. It’s a bad “lack of a habit” I suppose, but it’s not unusual for me. I guess I’ve never been a regular when it comes to prayer. It comes and goes, and I don’t worry about it too much, though perhaps it’s a sin that will send me someplace dark someday, but I doubt it.

I noticed though in Jamaica that I checked in every night. I’m not sure you would call it prayer, or at least I’m not sure I would call it prayer. There was no two-way conversation, I didn’t take time to listen. But every night before I fell asleep, without thinking I ought to, I checked in with God. It sounds a little strange, but some part of me needed Her to know that I had seen it. I had seen all the poverty and walls and the people on the street asking for money or food. I had seen the shacks and the wires stealing electricity and the children without shoes and sometimes without even clothes. I had seen Her face in the children we met and heard Her voice in the songs the people sang.

I needed God to know that I had noticed. I noticed the injustice and poverty all around us. I heard the statistics about crime and violence. I remembered the part where my country was indirectly and directly involved in the fate of this smaller island and the people I met.

I heard.

I saw.

I remembered.

And I knew God was still present, even though it didn’t seem possible.

I realized tonight as I was trying to fall asleep that I haven’t “checked in” since I’ve been home. I’ve been busy I suppose. Emails and papers, television and laundry. And I guess I haven’t seen or heard or noticed the past few days. I wonder why it is so hard, in the comfort of home, to pay attention.