We had your grandfather down for a block party, she said. And we had him pray.

Him praying. It is one of the things people remember most vividly, not the words, per se, but the way the room changed and everyone felt like they’d been in the presence of something special.

He gave a sermon in that prayer, but there was no long-suffering air in the one who was talking. There were tears in her eyes, mirrored by the ones in mine.

My grandfather was connected to heaven and when he prayed, we all traced the tether like Jacob’s ladder.

Listen, once you’ve been transfigured by prayer, it’s hard to stomach some of the pious and pompous Pharisaical stuff that fills the churches these days.