Why Pray?

A YouTube story about Chen Li Shu Shu—an ordinary mother in Houston—stopped me in my tracks. Her young son, diagnosed with severe autism, once seemed lost to the world: his unusual behaviors left the family adrift, his silence a wall between him and the love they offered. Desperate for hope, Li Shu Shu turned to prayer—not as a last resort, but as a lifeline: a conscious reach toward something greater than her own fear. Then, at two years old, the impossible happened: the boy who could not speak looked up and called her “Mom,” and his father “Dad.” It was a crack in the darkness—and what followed was more remarkable still: school, university, a job, independence. Li Shu Shu credits it all to God’s intervention, to the power of a faith that refused to let go.

This story lingered with me, not just as a “miracle,” but as a question: Is there a higher power? And if so, can we truly connect to it? I believe the answer is yes—but not through grand gestures or blind dogma. Connection, I’ve come to see, is a quiet, intentional act: it’s prayer that bridges the gap between doubt and hope, meditation that aligns us with the universe’s rhythm, and a willingness to recognize that we are part of something far larger than ourselves.

What Is a Higher Power, Anyway?

When we talk about a “higher power,” we often reach for names: God, Allah, Buddha-nature, Dharma. But in my first visit to a small Taoist temple in Vancouver—its air thick with incense, its walls lined with scrolls of the Qingjing Jing (Scripture of Purity and Stillness)—I learned a different truth: the most fundamental higher power may be something beyond names. The Qingjing Jing puts it plainly: “The Great Dao has no form; it births Heaven and Earth. The Great Dao has no will; it moves the sun and moon. The Great Dao has no emotion; it nurtures all the universe. Nobody knows its name; we just call it Dao.”

The Dao is not a deity with a face or a voice. It is the silent force behind a flower pushing through concrete, a river carving a canyon, the moon waxing and waning without effort. It is the order in chaos, the harmony in difference—the same force that Abrahamic faiths call “God,” that Hindus know as “Brahman,” that Buddhists recognize as “Buddha-nature.” Even the sound of it echoes across cultures: “Dao” and “God” roll off the tongue with a similar softness, like “Dad” in English and “Da” in Chinese—familiar, comforting, a reminder that we are all reaching for the same thing, just in different languages.

This higher power is not a distant ruler. It is the universe itself, alive and interconnected. We are not separate from it; we are part of it—made of the same stardust that fuels galaxies, bound by the same rhythms that guide the seasons. Our souls, our spirits—those intangible parts of us that feel joy, grieve loss, and yearn for meaning—are the threads that tie us to this force. To connect to a higher power is simply to wake up to that truth.

How Do We Connect? Ritual as a Bridge

Critics often dismiss spiritual practices as “superstition”—prayer as wishful thinking, meditation as empty calm. But I’ve found that these practices are not about “asking for favors.” They are about alignment: about quieting the noise of our egos long enough to hear the universe’s whisper.

In Christianity, prayer is communion. It’s not just talking to God—it’s listening. Li Shu Shu’s prayer was not a demand for her son to heal; it was a surrender: “I can’t do this alone. Guide me.” That surrender, I think, is the key. When we let go of our need to control, we create space for connection. It’s why the boy’s first words felt like a “miracle”: not because God “answered” a prayer, but because Li Shu Shu’s faith kept her open to the possibility of healing—even when all evidence suggested it was impossible.

In Daoism, connection happens through stillness. It’s not about “prayer” in the Christian sense, but about wu wei—“non-action,” or acting in harmony with the Dao. When I sat in that Vancouver temple, watching elderly practitioners meditate with their eyes closed, hands resting gently on their laps, I realized they were not “doing nothing.” They were connecting: letting their breath sync with the temple’s quiet, their thoughts melt into the Dao’s flow. It’s the same idea as Christian prayer, just framed differently: both are ways to step outside our small selves and into the larger whole.

The common thread? Surrender of the ego. Whether we kneel in a church or sit in a temple, we are saying the same thing: “I am here. I am open. I trust.”

Quantum Science and the Mystery of Connection

Some might ask: Does science support this? Can a “higher power” really exist in a world governed by physics? In 2022, three physicists won the Nobel Prize for their work on quantum entanglement—the phenomenon where two particles, once linked, influence each other instantly, no matter how far apart they are. Separateness, quantum physics suggests, is an illusion. The universe is a web of connections, where every action ripples outward.

This doesn’t “prove” the existence of God or the Dao—but it echoes the spiritual truths we’ve known for millennia. Taoism teaches that “all things are one”; quantum entanglement shows that all particles are linked. Christianity speaks of “being part of the body of Christ”; quantum science reveals we are part of a universal system where no thing exists in isolation. Even the “observer effect”—where the act of observing a particle changes its state—mirrors the idea that our intention matters. Prayer, meditation, hope: these are not just thoughts. They are acts of observation, of alignment, that can shift the energy around us.

Li Shu Shu’s son’s healing wasn’t “caused” by quantum entanglement—but the story and the science both point to a universe that is more mysterious, more alive, than we often imagine. We are not passive observers in this world; we are participants. Our faith, our love, our prayers—these are the threads that weave us into the higher power’s fabric.

Why Does Connection Sometimes “Fail”?

Of course, not every prayer is answered, not every meditation brings clarity. Why? It’s not because the higher power is “ignoring” us—it’s because we are often blocked by our own fears, doubts, and limiting beliefs.

Taoism teaches that we must cultivate “qing jing”—purity and stillness—to perceive the Dao. If our minds are cluttered with anxiety, if we cling to expectations of how healing “should” look, we can’t hear the Dao’s guidance. Christianity puts it this way: “Faith without works is dead” (James 2:26). Connection requires more than belief; it requires trust—trust that the higher power’s plan may be different from our own, trust that even pain has purpose.

Li Shu Shu didn’t stop at prayer. She sought help for her son, advocated for him, loved him through the hard days. Her faith was not passive; it was active. That’s the lesson: connection works when we meet the higher power halfway—with openness, persistence, and love.

The Connection Is Already Here

Confucius once said: “The Dao is near, and people seek it far away.” We spend so much time searching for the higher power in temples, in books, in miracles—but it’s already within us, around us. It’s the love that made Li Shu Shu keep praying, the stillness that lets us hear the Dao, the quantum entanglement that binds us all.

We can connect to a higher power. We do it every time we love deeply, every time we hope against hope, every time we sit in silence and feel the universe breathe with us. The boy’s first “Mom” was not just a word—it was a reminder: the higher power speaks in the small, sacred moments. It speaks in love. It speaks in connection.

So let’s pray—not to a distant God, but to the part of the Dao that lives in us. Let’s meditate—not to escape the world, but to align with it. Let’s trust that we are never alone. The connection is here, waiting for us to be still enough to listen.