“You are in my prayers.”
           I say this all the time. Most the time I mean it and most of the time I hold myself to it. Truth be told, it’s hard to hold back the intentions logged in my memory. When I pray the Liturgy of the Hours, for instance, these intentions shove against the assigned Psalms like steers at a feed bunk. I count heads as I maneuver the grain truck down the ally, hoping everyone for whom I promised to pray receives sufficient grace for the day ahead.
           My list includes family, friends, farmers, rough necks and roustabouts; I pray for husbands, wives, fathers, mothers and good homes for their children; I pray for my brother priests, for vocations, for my country; for those who are sick, alone and afraid; for those who serve and protect us; for the poor, the incarcerated, the addicted and the oppressed. Like rosary beads squeezed between fingers, I concentrate on specific individuals and particular needs.   
            So, when do I pray for my parish? Unlike petitions that push their way into Morning Prayer, concern for my flock accompanies me throughout the day, like a faithful dog in the cab of my truck with country music in the background.  A litany of compassion hums beneath the sound of tires as I roll pass gas stations, nursing homes, oil refineries and houses in bad need of repair. At the edge of town, the prayers turn ponderous as I begin my rounds to smaller hamlets under my care.
           The vista of open plains enchants me, but I brace myself because, in this part of the country, rural communities are dying. There is mottling on the faded siding of a liquor store. A hunch-back motel falls to its knees in long grass. Sunken eyes leer from a skull at Tommy’s Tattoos.
           I reach for the radio and silence an idiot song about tailgates and halter tops. My eyes moisten. In the silence, I recite the chaplet: “Have mercy on us and on the whole world.”
           My parish is a vale of tears and its poverty—the contagion of it—rattles my soul like coins in a cup.