“I know a lot of fancy words. / I tear them from my heart and my tongue. / Then I pray.”

Mary Oliver, from her poem “Six Recognitions of the Lord”

It’s odd, the ways we address God. “Please do this.” “Please do that.”

We thank him for the sunshine yesterday, and for finding the lost car keys.

It’s almost like we’re addressing a child.

Or, we talk to God with pomp, in a weird religious way we’d never use with a human we defer to or respect. “We praise you for …” “We come to you with our petitions …”

When I take a moment to listen to myself and the pray-ers around me, the way we Christians talk to God sounds bizarre at times. Yet, at the same time, it is familiar and comfortable.

Sometimes I talk to God like a human. I ask a question and I use the usual inflection—you know, where the voice slides to a higher pitch? “Lord, will you give me peace?” (pitch goes up). Instead of “Lord, I ask you to give me peace.” (pitch goes down).

Sometimes I tell God what I want. I want a better relationship with so-and-so, or to not get sick on vacation, or for people in pain to know they’re not alone.

I try different ways of addressing God.

I test his sense of humor.

I ask him to excuse me when I burp.

I ask him what he thinks of human bodies, or what he did on Sabbath when he was a kid in Egypt.

I detail my grievances or process complex emotions in my prayer journal, knowing he’ll show up.

I avoid certain subjects because I don’t know what to say. How could I have the audacity to ask God for my own travel safety when vulnerable children are being sold into sex slavery as I pray? It feels wrong somehow, like praying for one specific friend to be healed from terminal cancer when the whole world is terminal and countless folks suffer.

My safest prayers center around gratitude: “Thank you for kittens and homegrown grapes.” “I’m so grateful you’re with the friend-of-a-friend who is being air-lifted to Seattle. Thank you for holding him.” “Thank you that love is big enough.”

I have worried about the “right” way to address God, knowing there is no right way, but wanting to know what it is just the same.

I have wondered why we tell him so many things he already knows.

I have waited in his presence for my soul to catch up with my body so we can all be together in peace.

I have kept silent because nothing I could say made any sense.

I have babbled on senselessly.

I have shared my most intimate thoughts and feelings, but I have not dared to ask for much. My excuse is that God is already at work and probably knows what he’s doing. But I wonder if I’m missing out on answered-prayer stories or a deeper trust of God.

I have more questions than answers, and I’m getting comfortable with that. Curiosity and not-knowing are a space from which to talk with God, to add my voice to a conversation as old as time, the one between a potter and his clay, one that will not often make sense but will always be sensible.