I am reminded now in this very cold day in January how a friend of mine prayed in church. We were at the Vatican, after four or maybe five hours of being on our feet, first waiting outside to be organized into our small group tours, then on queue to enter and retrieve headsets to hear our tour leader as she wove us through the crowded corridors of wealth and gold of the Holy See.

We saw the Roman statuary, the galleries full of maps, the ornate gilt and embroidery, until finally we saw, almost anticlimactically, the Sistine Chapel. God was much nearer than I’d imagined, hovering over my head as Adam reached towards Him, as we were routinely sushed by the priests.

My friend and I rested, waiting to reunite with the group who may have gone to other galleries or gift shops—my memory gets murky—when she announced quietly that she was going to go pray. Somehow, in all the ample luxury and baroque riches of the place, I had forgotten it was also a place of quiet contemplation. So my friend sat at a pew and prayed for her sons and her family, prayed for her friends, and the troubled world. She also quietly prayed for me, a nonbeliever and tourist.

I am remembering all this, nine months later, when the world is an as awful a fix as ever, and the wind is bitter. I am reminded of how often my mother also prays for me, how many coconuts have been offered to Ganesha in thanks for prayers answered. How steadfast is this faith of mothers who wish the best for us, who believe so profoundly. I send a prayer to them.