Once Dad could no longer kneel, or stand, or even sit up, he began saying his nighttime prayers in bed.  Mom would hold his hand as he spoke to his Father God, giving thanks for the blessings of home and family and his witness of spiritual truths, and importuning the Great Intervenor to bless each member of the family, by name, in their various afflictions and difficulties.  I did not like to eavesdrop on these sacred moments, but passing by their room I sometimes heard him praying for my happiness.  With Dad now departed, Mom has assumed his former role of praying out loud every night from her bed.  Mom loathes praying out loud in the presence of others, even to ask a blessing on our meals—for some reason she feels embarrassed and inadequate.  But in the comfort of her bed and dark bedroom, she prays to the Divine.  I hear her croaking gasping voice in supplication even from the distance of my bedroom, where I struggle to find my own words of faith and prayer.  I do not discern her words, and that is just as well: I don’t want to invade her privacy.  But I am glad to witness her faith.