I am sitting in public worship bearing sadness in my heart. My 10-year-old has suffered the recent loss of two siblings, one now off at school and another off to the independent lifestyle of young adulthood. Only Annalise is left at home with Mom and Dad, and the new puppy bought as consolation now growls at her and has bit her several times. There I wait for the beginning of a liturgical service with the discouragement and anxious spirit that at times can grip my heart.

I have tried to pray on my own, but a fearful mind cannot seem to free itself from its own anxious monologue. God seems very distant as my prayers circulate around the same answerless themes; Dad does not know what to do to spare his daughter the pain she suffers.

The service begins, "In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. The Lord be with you." The opening words mark a familiar routine, but also hold out a renewed invitation. It is the feast of Epiphany, and Father Richard now offers the opening prayer:

"Father of light, unchanging God, today you reveal to men of faith the resplendent fact of the Word made flesh. Your light is strong, you love is near; draw us beyond the limits which this world imposes, to the life where your Spirit makes all life complete...."

I am drawn once again into the mystery of God's people at prayer. On my own I cannot pray, so the Church with its ancient wisdom, honed through centuries of faith, gathers me into a communal place of safety and comfort as it proclaims the God who is near, whose light shines into the sad, dark places of the heart. These words, the proclamation of Scripture and the rich prayers of the Eucharist that follow, all draw me irresistibly back into a truth greater than the confines of my struggling faith.

Yes, God can manage what I do not know, and grant love when my love fails. Annalise will be OK.

In my faith journey, this has been the power of liturgical prayer. If I dare to approach these prayers with an open, receptive heart, God meets me in these "written forms," enabling me to pray as I ought.

Although liturgical prayers have a distinctively communal function, they can also aid in personal devotions. For many years while serving as an American Baptist pastor, I used the Morning Prayer service in the Episcopal Book of Common Prayer to guide me through my prayer time. Today as a Catholic I find my prayer journey deeply enriched through use of the Liturgy of the Hours. The written prayers and psalms of Morning and Evening Prayer remind me of themes I might otherwise overlook.

At the same time, these historic prayers of the church draw me out of my sometimes overly subjective and privatized religious experience, keeping my faith soundly rooted in "the apostle's teaching." This gift of the church invites exploration, especially by those of us who have never discovered the richness of this treasure.

John Hull, a faculty member of Fuller Theological Seminary in Pasadena, is a lector at St. Rita Church, Sierra Madre. The former American Baptist minister is also a member of the Los Angeles Archdiocese's deaconate formation program.