The Space Between Prayers

Story:

The Space Between Prayers

I grew up in a neighborhood where church bells rang on Sundays, the mosque filled with calls to prayer on Fridays, and the local temple smelled of incense and jasmine every evening.

In a single block, you could hear a choir rehearsing, a Buddhist chant softly playing, and a grandmother whispering Catholic rosaries behind a window draped with lace.

Religion, in my world, was everywhere—and it was beautiful.

But it was also complicated.

When I Was a Child

As a child, I didn’t understand why grown-ups whispered about who believed what.

All I saw were people showing up with candles, flowers, covered heads, folded hands, and quiet reverence.

I saw kindness in all corners—my Muslim neighbor brought us biryani every Eid, the Hindu family next door lit up the street during Diwali, and the Christian lady down the lane gave me a tiny wooden cross on my birthday and called it a “blessing.”

None of them ever tried to change me.

They just shared. Warmly. Freely. Lovingly.

To me, religion wasn’t a divider. It was a language—many different languages—used to speak to something higher.

The Question That Changed Me

But things changed when I grew older. In middle school, someone asked me,

"What religion are you?"

I stumbled. I didn’t know how to answer. My parents weren’t very strict, though they believed in God. We celebrated Eid, Christmas, and Holi all together—part tradition, part joy.

I said, “I think I believe in all of them.”

The boy laughed. “That’s not possible. You have to pick one.”

That was the first time I felt ashamed of being… open.

The first time I realized how tightly people held their truths.

The first time I saw religion not as connection, but as boundary.

My Search for Meaning

In college, I studied comparative religion. Not for credits—but for curiosity.

I read the Quran, the Bhagavad Gita, the Torah, the Bible, Buddhist sutras, and Native spiritual writings. I sat in mosques, cathedrals, synagogues, and even a mountain cave where a local sage meditated.

Here’s what surprised me:

They all echoed the same things.

Be kind.

Do good.

Honor your neighbor.

Stay humble.

Seek peace.

Don’t lie.

Take care of the earth.

Remember the Divine, however you call it.

The differences were there—rituals, names, symbols—but the soul of each tradition whispered the same gentle truths.

That realization didn’t make me less faithful.

It made me more human.

The Problem Isn’t Religion—it’s Ownership

The wars, the violence, the hate—it’s not born from belief.

It’s born from ego. From people trying to own truth rather than live it.

Religion, at its core, was never meant to be a weapon.

It was meant to be a bridge.

But we, in our fear and tribalism, have used it to divide rather than connect.

We’ve forgotten that God, the Universe, the One, the Spirit—whatever name we give—is not ours to protect.

It is already whole.

It is already everywhere.

The Space Between Prayers

One of my favorite memories was during a trip to Turkey. I sat in a courtyard where the call to prayer echoed through the air. A Christian tourist was sitting beside me, her eyes closed. A Buddhist monk passed by with soft footsteps.

No one spoke.

For a full five minutes, we just existed together—wrapped in something sacred, quiet, and inexplicably shared.

That’s what religion, at its best, feels like.

A space.

A breath.

A reverent silence between two heartbeats.

What I Believe Now

I no longer worry about what label I wear.

I light candles. I meditate. I pray with my heart open and my hands empty.

I believe in the God that lives in children’s laughter, in the hush of dawn, in the hands that feed the hungry.

I believe that all religions are mirrors, reflecting different angles of the same eternal light.

And I believe that the world doesn’t need more believers of religion.

It needs more practitioners of love.

Final Thought

Religion isn’t just about reaching heaven.

It’s about how we treat each other here, now, in this moment.

So, whether you pray five times a day or never at all, whether you chant, kneel, bow, or breathe silently—remember:

If your faith makes you more loving, more compassionate, more just—

then you’re already walking the path.

And that is more than enough.