Early in my widowhood, as I prayed with my son and daughter about a possible move, I ended the prayer with "Thank you, God, that you'll show us what to do."

As I stood up, my then twelve-year-old daughter, Holly, said, "Mom, you didn't say, 'Amen.'"

I nodded. "That's because the Lord and I are going to talk about this all day long."

We did, too?while I was driving, washing dishes, and waiting in the dentist's office. Eventually my children and I made a cross-country move that opened a new career for me. But, more important, I'd begun a new adventure in connecting with God.

Here's what I've learned about prayer along the way.

In Colorado Springs, where I live, majestic Pike's Peak rises above the city. On those rare days when clouds obscure the Peak, we don't wander around saying, "I knew it was too good to last. The Peak is gone!" We know the Peak is there, though we can't see it. It's the same with God. He's working even when we can't see his hand.

Reading all the books on prayer and listening to the world's greatest intercessors mean nothing if we don't start talking to God ourselves. Because of Jesus' death and resurrection, we can talk to our heavenly Father just as we talk to a good friend.

Jana (not her real name) remembers her grandparents' prayers filled with sacred sounding "thees" and "thous" that made her feel uncomfortable about approaching God. She says her attitude changed only when she tried to start a stubborn lawnmower and sighed a simple "Lord, I really need your help." The resulting catch of the engine thrust her into a new awareness of his presence.

Perhaps you've heard the five Ps: Be in the same place for prayer each day, during the same period of time; use the same posture; select a Scripture passage; then pray. Those are good suggestions, but it's important to concentrate on the privilege of prayer rather than on the process.

Years ago, as I explained a workplace dilemma to a friend, he leaned back in his chair, put his hands behind his head, and said, "Let's give this to the Lord right now." Then he proceeded, with eyes wide open, to pray.

Startled, I put my head down, folded my hands, and squeezed my eyes closed. Still, I knew my friend continued gazing out the window, talking to the One who'd created all that beauty. Amazed by his physical boldness and spiritual humility, I thought about prayer in a new way. Today, I readily pray with my eyes open?on walks with a friend or on the telephone as I encourage a troubled caller.

My Kentucky grandmother, Mama Farley, talked to God so naturally that often I'd meander into our kitchen expecting to see a neighbor, but discover it was just Mama and the Lord discussing the day.

"Now, Lord," I heard Mama say one day, "You're going to have to do something about the well. You know we need water. And you've said all we have to do is ask, so thank you for the way you'll guide us in solving this. Meanwhile, keep the men strong and safe as they dig."

My grandfather and uncles reached a good water table the next morning.

When my son, Jay, was a toddler, he'd often exclaim, "Hey, take a see!" What if we offered that same joyful call to our heavenly Father as we thank him for a beautiful sunrise?

Similarly, what if we were truthful in our pain? As a single parent, many of my prayers have begun with "Lord, you know I hate days like this," as I've faced another crisis. When the Lord said, "Come unto me," he didn't add, "as long as there's a smile on your face." He just said, "Come!"

Especially then. One of my single-mom friends, Debi, heard her then nine-year-old son, Shane, screaming as he charged into the house one summer morning. He was clutching his left hand with his right?and blood oozed out between his fingers.