For the past few months I have been a rather sick apricot. Illness took me completely by surprise, and I fell off the parish tree with quite a thud. Another priest has kindly stepped in, and I am only now beginning to find my “mojo” again. With a little more time and a few more deep breaths, I hope to resume my duties soon.

Like the British King, I shall keep my ailment to myself — it’s good to have the occasional secret — but I can say that I am now officially a “frequent outpatient clinic” visitor. If only they offered reward cards, I’d be well on my way to a free toaster by now.

What did I learn?

Somewhere in the fog of painkillers, treatments, and the endless choreography of bedpans and IV flushes, I learned to “give to God.” I handed Him my despair, my worries, my fears — not wrapped in holy language or polished phrases, but simply as they were. I let Him see into my heart and mind, and I entrusted it all to Him. He became, in a sense, my spiritual attorney.

Occasionally I felt a twinge of guilt that I wasn’t reciting a psalm that matched my mood, but eventually I surrendered even that. I simply said to God, “These are my words, these are my feelings, and I have to give them to You.”

My experience brought to life the wisdom of the saints. St Teresa of Ávila reminds us that prayer is “a close sharing between friends,” a quiet moment with the One who loves us. And St Thérèse of Lisieux, with her beautiful simplicity, calls prayer “a surge of the heart… a simple look toward heaven.”

Their words encourage us to pray honestly, gently, and in our own voice. God is not waiting for perfect sentences — He is waiting for us. Whether our prayer is joyful or weary, confident or uncertain, long or just a single whispered line, He receives it with tenderness.

I felt that. And I have learned to trust it too.