O’Malley sat behind two middle-aged women on a bus in Cleveland and listened to their conversation.

“My Aunt Wilma has pancreatic cancer. The doctors have told her she has only a few weeks to live. It’s hopeless. I visited her in the hospital and I asked her if there was anything I could do. She said, ‘Pray for me, Addy.’”

“Uh huh.”

“My mother is in a nursing home. She has dementia. Some days she hardly knows who I am and it can only get worse. I saw her just last Tuesday and I asked her if there was anything I could do. She said, ‘Pray for me, Addy.’”

“Uh huh.”

“My brother Arthur just had surgery for prostate cancer. It has already spread into his lymph. He’s had chemotherapy and radiation and now he’s too weak even to stand. When I stopped in to see him, I asked him if there was anything I could do for him. He said, ‘Pray for me, Addy.’”

“Uh huh.”

“My friend Louise is in intensive care. Her cardiomyopathy got suddenly worse and now her kidneys have almost stopped functioning and her body is retaining fluid. There is no cure. I asked Louise if there was anything I could do, and she said, ‘Just pray for me, Addy.’”

“Uh huh.”

The chronicle of terminal illness and suffering, with the same refrain, went on and on. Finally, when the bus reached her stop, Addy stood to get off.

“When these people ask you to pray for them,” the other woman asked, “what do you pray?”

“Oh, I just ask the good Lord to put them out of their misery.”

As Addy stepped off the bus, her friend called to her.

“Pray for me, Addy!”