Hi, God,

It’s me again. I know it’s been a while since my last prayer, so I don’t blame you if you choose not to listen to a hopeless sinner like me.

The truth is, I’m just not a very great guy. I wish I had a better excuse than this, but I don’t. And if I offered you a better excuse, you’d know I was lying.

I’m slothful, plain and simple. I have bad habits. Sometimes I don’t do the right thing. And oftentimes, I just plum forget to pray.

The reason for this is because I grew up in a Baptist fundamentalist household. My mother forced me to pray each night at gunpoint. We uttered morbid prayers that struck terror into the hearts of children.

I prayed each night, for instance, that if the Rapture were to occur, and Gabriel blew his trumpet, that I wouldn’t be left behind. I prayed this every night, without exception. I was terrified that if I wasn’t taken in the Rapture, I’d be left here on earth to suffer with all the Methodists.

And then there was the prayer Granny made me memorize. “Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep.” There has never been a more sadistic prayer than this childhood classic.

“Now I lay me down to sleep,
“I pray the Lord my soul to keep;
“If I should die before I wake,
“It’s because I was a bad little boy and I truly deserved to be asphyxiated in my sleep.”

My wife. Now there’s a true prayer warrior. She keeps a handwritten list. Every night before supper, my wife prays for each person she’s ever met since third grade.

My wife prays for everyone. From the Vietnamese exchange student she met in preschool, to former U.S. president Bill Clinton.

I have a difficult time staying alert during her suppertime prayers. My head sinks lower with each passing word, until eventually my forehead is on the table and our food has developed a thin layer of frost on the surface

But me? I’m just not a devout guy.

I know, I know. I should beat myself up about this. But I’m tired of beating myself up.

I’ve been beating myself up for years because I’ve never been what everyone else thinks I should be. I’m a disappointment to a lot of people.

I’m an abject failure in so many areas of my life. I’m a hick. An academic shipwreck. I am a lazy guy. If I had a third hand, I’d need a third pocket to put it in.

I am unfocused. Disorganized. Dyslexic. A dropout. Borderline stupid. I do not make my bed, sometimes for days on end, until my wife threatens to marry the plumber.

And do you know something else, God? Right now, as I write this prayer, I am not kneeling or tucked away in a prayer closet. Do you know what I’m doing? I’m embarrassed to admit this, but I am drinking beer.

It’s not even quality beer. It’s Pabst Blue Ribbon. Because it was on sale at Walmart for $17.98 per case.

So again, I don’t blame you if you don’t listen to my beseechment. You have every right.

But.

If you were inclined to receive an imploration from an idiot like me, here is my request:

Please help a little girl named Andie Kate. I recently saw a picture of her on Facebook. This happened after I had just settled down to begin writing.

There I was. I had intended to write something completely different. I had just opened a beer, and started tapping away on my keyboard when I saw this sweet girl on my computer screen.

Andie Kate Mason is a 4-year-old from Daphne, Alabama. She has B-Cell acute lymphoblastic leukemia. She has undergone procedure after procedure. Invasive treatments. Skin grafts. Spinal chemo. You name it.

I started crying when I watched a video of Andie Kate relearning how to walk in the corridors of the hospital. I wept when I read about how her family has fought.

I know you’re up there, God. I know you’re listening. And even though this prayer is coming from the lips of a failed human being like me, help this child. Do your thing, Lord. Prove to everyone what you’re capable of. Don’t do it because I asked. Do it because Andie Kate Mason is your baby.

Very truly yours,
—A hopeless sinner