Ever walk into a temple and think, “Wow, this is God’s giant suggestion box, but everyone’s suggesting they win the lottery”? Pretty funny, isn’t it? People tiptoe in quietly, heads down, but you just know they’re secretly trying to check if their neighbor is asking for a bigger car. You can almost hear them whispering:

“Psst, God, make my TV bigger than Kevin’s. And maybe give him a tiny bald spot? Just a small one. Thanks!”

“Oh God, my friend got a shiny red bike. Could I please have a blue one with a super loud horn? And maybe give his red bike a flat tire, just a little one?”

“Oh God, she got a new dollhouse with three floors? I’d just like one with five floors and a tiny elevator. I promise I’ll be super good.”

It’s like a secret contest where the grand prize is… well, more stuff. And who’s judging? Probably the quietest mouse in the corner, scribbling notes.

And yes, I’m right there with them—let’s not pretend otherwise. For years, I’ve treated God like my personal genie, minus the cool lamp. I rubbed my hands together, hoping my wishes would magically appear: “Hi God, it’s me again. Can I have good grades, make the school bully trip, and maybe find a twenty-dollar bill on the street? Kthxbye.” It’s like having an endlessly patient helper who never takes a day off, even for the silliest requests.

But it wasn’t always this way. My mind goes fuzzy like an old TV when I try to think back.

When I was very small, my dad used to take me to the temple. He didn’t say much. He just held my hand softly, as if worried I might float away like a balloon. The temple bells rang gently, and the sweet smell of incense tickled my nose. I’d look up and ask, “Appa, what should I wish for?”

He’d smile, soft and calm, and say, “Wish for everyone to be happy—your friends, your teachers, everyone in our town. If they’re okay, you’ll be okay too.”

So I did. I’d close my eyes and send out good wishes, like little paper boats drifting along a gentle river. No demands. No conditions. Just quiet thoughts hoping everyone felt warm and fuzzy inside.

But then life happened. Things got louder, like too many voices shouting inside a small room. And my wishes—my prayers—began to shrink, weighed down by heavy rocks of adult worries.

Somewhere between big school tests and scraped knees, my wishes shrank from “make everyone happy” to “please let me get a good seat on the bus.” Somewhere between worrying about homework and losing lunch money, my prayer became “just let me get through this day without crying.” My heart began to feel heavier, like carrying a backpack full of stones.

But lately, I’ve been noticing—my prayers started sounding less like shopping lists and more like whispered apologies.

Now, when I close my eyes, my words are different. They’re not about toys, or grades, or even about avoiding embarrassment.

Now, my whisper sounds like this:

“God… when it’s my turn to go, please don’t let me be a burden. Don’t make me lie helpless in a white room, tubes everywhere, my family sad and scared.” My chest tightens thinking about it, like a door repeatedly slamming shut.

“Just let me fade away quietly, like a story gently ending—not loud or messy, not strangers caring for me with worried faces around me. Let my family remember my smile, not the beep of machines.” This feeling sinks deep into my bones, making them feel old and tired.

It’s still a wish just for me.

But maybe… maybe it’s the only truly honest one I’ve ever had. This quiet hurt sits in my chest, a deep, gentle pain that doesn’t fade.

I haven’t always cared for this body well. I fed it tasty junk food instead of nutritious meals. I ignored its tiredness, aches, and pains. I filled my head with so much unnecessary noise—worries about the past, fears about the future, conversations I was too scared to have aloud. It’s like I was given a beautiful home, but let it grow dusty and neglected.

Still, when I fold my hands now, I wish for something very simple.

Not to win, not to outshine others, just… quiet.

A gentle goodbye—like blowing out a candle. The flame dances quietly for a moment, then fades softly away—not because it broke, but because it gave all its light. And maybe that’s enough.

What if that’s the whole point? To find peace not in having more, but in finally needing less?