The Night I Learned How Not To Pray

I was laying on my belly
In the middle of the living floor
I was watching howdy doody
So I'm guessing it was right around four
When I saw my baby brother tumbling
From the top of the stairs
He was lying limp and silent
And the blood was trickling through his shiny hair

When my mom saw my little brother
She said: You better run and get your dad
And her voice was high and she was shaking
So I knew that this was bad
Well, we stood out at the mailbox
Watching her and dad and brother drive away
And I didn't waste no time I got down on my knees
Right there and began to pray

Well, I prayed into the evening
Never even took the time to have a bite
I was sure if I prayed hard enough
That God would make it right
We were at the kitchen table long past bedtime
When we finally got that call
And I knew that it was over
When my sister slammed that phone against the wall

That was the night I learned how not to pray
God does what God wants to any way
And I never did tell my mother
I kept it from my sisters and all my brothers
That was the night I learned how not to pray

It was 41 years later when I took my brothers picture out of a box
Hung it on the wall and sat across from him and I began to talk
When the evening started I didn't know what I was going to say
But before the night was over
I told them all about how I learned not to pray

That was the night I learned how not to pray
God does what God wants to any way
And I never did tell my mother
I kept it from my sisters and all my brothers
That was the night I learned how not to pray