A few years ago, I worked at a community center with neighborhood youth, where I had the chance to engage with children who carried far heavier burdens than their young hearts should hold. One person in particular stands out in memory, a young boy by the name of Desmond. Desmond was a boy who had lived a life filled with neglect and abandonment. He had run away from home again—something he did often. His biological mother had come home one day and announced her pregnancy with a baby girl, the child she had always wanted. And now, in her mind, having a baby she could truly love meant she no longer needed Desmond, which is what she told him. She relinquished him to the foster care system, leaving him angry, lost, and convinced that no one in the world cared about him.
And so, one evening, 12-year-old Desmond found his way to the community center, in search of something outside of himself. I was paged to meet with him, and instead of trying to change his mind or give him answers, I simply sat with him. Desmond had shared his desire to be in a band, and with a smile, I asked what instrument he played. He gave me a bewildered look, unsure of how to answer. So I asked him what he thought about the piano. He nodded, and we moved to the music room, sitting down behind the black and white keys.
I don’t know everything about the piano, but enough to be dangerous. So, I showed Desmond Middle C, explaining how it could be his home base—a place to return to whenever he got lost on the keyboard. I told him that if he ever felt lost, he could always come back to Middle C. It would guide him and help him find his way again.
Then I asked him if he had a “Middle C” in his life—someone or something he could always count on, no matter how lost he felt. Desmond thought for a moment, and then slowly, he began to list the few things that felt stable to him: this community center, his current foster dad, and finally, he said, “I guess God is like Middle C too, huh? He’s always there.”
In that moment, Desmond found something outward to hold onto, something beyond the pain and abandonment that had filled his young life. It was a small but profound realization: that there was a constant in his life, something steady and beautiful that he could turn to even in the midst of chaos. And that constant was God.
In society, prayer is often dismissed as something inward, something private, or even something for the old or weak. When people think of prayer, they often picture someone with their eyes closed, hands folded, head bowed. In many minds, prayer is an act of retreat—something done quietly, in isolation, without real engagement with the world. But I believe prayer is much more than that.
This experience with Desmond reminded me of the true power of prayer. Like Middle C, prayer can be a home base — a place to turn to when the world feels overwhelming. But more than that, prayer can be a way to reach beyond ourselves, to connect with others in their struggles, and to offer them hope. Prayer, when used in this way, is not just an inward practice; it is a powerful tool that can inspire and rebuild, helping to lift others up in the midst of their darkest moments
Recently, as a mainline denominational pastor, I challenged my congregation to pray not only for themselves and their families, but for others. We each wrote a prayer on a card and placed it on a wall we had built together — a prayer wall not just for our own burdens, but for the world outside of us.
As the cards piled up, I found myself thinking of another wall — the Western Wall in Jerusalem, which I visited as part of my Stand and See trip in 2023. The day we toured the Dome of the Rock and the Western Wall, there was an energy in the air, thick with history, division, and emotions that ran deep. It was a palpable heaviness I couldn’t shake — until we reached the Western Wall. There, in that sacred space, all the tension seemed to dissolve.
The peace I found at the Western Wall was undeniable, a peace that transcended the struggles of the day. What struck me most was that it wasn’t the space itself that brought me to this place of calm, but the presence of God. That day, I encountered the Wall as a place of welcoming and grace — not just for its historical significance but because I was able to quiet my own thoughts and open my heart to God’s presence. I realized that spaces don’t always meet us the same way every time, nor do we meet them the same way. But in that moment, the Wall became a vessel through which I experienced the light and grace for which I searched.
For me, it was less about the stone and mortar and more about the connection with the Spirit. When I say Spirit as a Christian, I mean the breath we feel in prayer, that intimate exchange with the Divine. For me, it is the voice of the prophets, urging justice, mercy, and righteousness, not only for our sake but for the sake of all creation. It is the spark that enlivens every soul, a reminder that the image of God dwells within us all, calling us to be partners in the healing and mending of the world. It was a reminder that we don’t just encounter holy spaces; we encounter whispers of God in them when we are open to the presence. I felt the burdens of my own anxieties lifted as I called out to God in prayer, leaving behind what weighed me down and finding the peace that only Spirit can provide.
The act of praying with an open heart and mind invites us to care for the Desmonds of the world: the people who are struggling, who feel abandoned, or who have lost their way. It challenges us to step outside our own concerns and to see the bigger picture: the pain, the need, and the hope that exist beyond our immediate circle.
This kind of prayer has the power to transform not just our own hearts, but the hearts of those around us. It becomes a bridge between us and the people we may never have considered, the ones we may not fully understand, and even those we disagree with.
In a world that can feel isolating and divided, prayer offers a way to reach across those divides. It is a tool that connects, heals, and restores. And in using prayer this way, we can become like Middle C to someone else—a constant, a guide, a source of hope and comfort.
So maybe, instead of praying with our eyes closed and our heads down, we should open our eyes, lift our heads, and pray with watchfulness, attentiveness, and engagement. Not to show the world that we pray, but to pray openly for the world we love, the world we are part of, and the people who, like Desmond, are searching for something steady to hold onto.
Prayer can be that steady place, a home base that reminds us—and others—that we are never alone. And in that, there is great power and even greater hope.

Jill Harman is an associate pastor for Fremont First United Methodist Church. In this role, she oversees the teams responsible for youth and children’s ministry, IT, missional growth, Christian education, and intergenerational connection. She partners closely with her team to foster and grow relationships focused on congregational and communal growth based on development goals.
Jill also serves as an adjunct professor for Creighton University in the education department, where she teaches courses in restorative justice. Additionally, she is the restorative justice co-chair on campus, where she is a leading activist and consultant for restorative practices.
Jill holds a BA in Communication Studies with a minor in History from the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. She has a MA in Theological Christian Ministry from Emmanuel Christian Seminary. She is writing her doctoral dissertation on restorative practices and the impact on student retention rates in higher education at Creighton University in pursuit of an Ed.D.