It’s hard to pray for someone you wish would slip on a banana peel.
—Mother Angelica
There’s a kind of honesty in that line that startles the heart awake. It names the tension between duty and desire, between the call to gentleness and the ache of frustration. To wish someone ill—even comically—is to admit that grace doesn’t always come easily. And yet, the very act of naming that struggle is a step toward something deeper.
In the quiet hours, when the body is tethered and the rhythm of care is steady, such confessions take on a different hue. They’re not just about the person who irks us—they’re about the parts of ourselves that long to be free from resentment, from the weight of unmet expectations. The music of the soul, if it’s to be true, must include the dissonant notes.
And so, the invitation is not to pretend we’re always serene, but to bring the whole messy chord into the presence of love. To say,
“Here is my irritation, my bruised pride, my petty wish
—and here too is my longing to be better.”
In that offering, something shifts. Not always dramatically. Sometimes just enough to soften the grip, to let the breath deepen, to make room for a different kind of rhythm.
Forgiveness, then, is not a performance. It’s a practice. A slow, sometimes faltering movement toward spaciousness. And perhaps the most surprising grace is this: that even the banana peel moments can become part of the dance.
Let my breath soften what my heart resists,
and let the rhythm of showing up become its own kind of mercy.
NeuroDivine 
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