Despite our rather excellent planning, a glitch sprang up when we got to Marshfield, Wis., for our mother's funeral. The morning of the wake, Mary'n, my sister's partner, opened the CD that held the wake and funeral programs and discovered that nothing was there. Ooops. The beautiful full-color originals were on her computer at home in Minneapolis, 3½ hours away. But Mary'n did not worry. All she needed, she figured, was someone with a modicum of computer savvy to sit at her computer and email the programs to someone's email address in Marshfield. So she started calling and quickly found Gwen, who was not only available, but happy to do it. Gwen, it turns out, had planned on coming to the funeral but at the last minute couldn't make it.

So 20 minutes later, Mary'n walked Gwen through how to break into the house, log onto the computer, open Publisher, find the file, and send an email with the programs attached. Problem solved. Or rather, first problem solved. To whom should Gwen send the email with the programs? Mary'n asked all the relatives who were in town for the funeral, but for an assortment of wacky reasons, no one could access their accounts, or open their computers, or log on, or something. ...

Meanwhile, Mary and I were at the funeral home setting up the photos and flowers around Mom's coffin. Mary's cell phone rang. It was Mary'n. Mary listened to the "no one can get to their email" problem on her cell phone and repeated the story to me. As she spoke, the delivery guy from Hefko Florist was bringing in Mom's flowers. As he set down the last bouquet, he turned to Mary, "Hey, we can help. I'm sure Seth would be happy to let you send the email to us at Hefko Florist. Call him, our number is ... .

God bless a small town! Within minutes we had our email problem solved. Mary and I drove straight to Hefko Florist. There, Mary went into the tiny office with Seth to learn how to use their computer. I wasn't needed and couldn't fit into the tiny space anyway, so I wandered around the store, looking at the gorgeous displays and smiling at the women creating arrangements for a pink and green wedding the next day. Tired of standing, I sat at the counter where people order flowers and noticed two boxes of handmade chocolates. This gave me a fun idea. Mother adored dark chocolate; why not invite her mourners to enjoy a piece of her favorite candy as they look at her photos and talk about her life? I bought a 2-pound box. Ten minutes later, Mary was still in the office fooling around with the programs, so I asked the floral designers for directions to the bathroom.

"Go down the hall and turn right," they said. As I turned the corner in the dark hallway, I noticed someone sitting on a bench outside a closed office. As I approached the bathroom, the person spoke. But I couldn't understand what he or she said. "Excuse me?" I said. The person repeated, "May ah say a pwayoo fo oo?" I walked up to the bench and looked down. The person — I couldn't tell if it was a man or a woman or even perhaps a child — looked up at me through thick glasses under a pork pie hat pulled way down over the eyes. "May ah say a pwayoo fo oo?" Oh, I said, "Can you say a prayer for me?" I thought about that for a second. "Why, sure."

The person stood up. She (I was now fairly certain it was a she) was very tiny. Maybe a couple inches over four feet. I bent down. She put out her hand, and I took her tiny, warm hand. We bowed our heads. "Law," she said, "Ah bwing dis woomaa to ooo." (Lord, I bring this woman to you.) Or something to that effect. I couldn't really tell what she was saying, but I think she was bringing me to the feet of God and asking God to bless me. I know the prayer ended, "In Jesus' name, Amen." I stood up. "Thank you," I said. She craned her neck looking up at me, "Don't thank me, thank Jesus Christ." "OK, him, too," I said and went to the bathroom.

When I came out, she was still sitting there. I wondered if I was supposed to give her a donation. But she had no container for money and she seemed content simply that we had prayed. I looked up and down the dim, empty hallway. "Uh, is this where you find people to pray for?" I asked. "Oh," she said, "I hab mawee pwaces." (I have many places.) "Well," I said, I'm at the florist with my sister and when she's finished, I'll bring her to you for a prayer." "OK," she smiled.

Back at the florist, Mary'n had arrived to check on the progress on the programs. She was wandering around the shop looking at the displays. I told her about the chocolate. "Great idea," she said. Suddenly, the prayer gnome was at my elbow. I guess she got tired of waiting for me to return with my sister. Mary was busy with the programs, but Mary'n was right there. "Hey, Mary'n," I said, "do you want a prayer?" Mary'n looked at me and then at the little person smiling beatifically up at us. "Uh, sure," she said.

And so, in the middle of Hefko Florist, with people working all around us, Mary'n and the Prayer Lady and I held hands and bent our heads while the Prayer Lady prayed for us. I think she said the same thing. Something along the lines of: Lord, I bring you this woman. Put her at your feet. You bless her. Something, something, something, something. In Jesus' name, Amen. Mary'n stood up. She smiled at me and at the Prayer Lady. "Boy, that felt good," she said and, turning to the little woman, Mary'n said warmly, "Thank you." "Don't thank me, thank Jesus Christ." "OK, him too," smiled Mary'n. And the Prayer Lady left. Seth's voice pulled us back to reality. "Isn't Marshfield great?" he said. "No matter where you go, someone's gonna pray for you."

Eventually Mary came out of the tiny office, grinning from ear to ear. "Success!" she crowed. "I opened the file, made the changes and forwarded it to OfficeMax to be printed. They'll be ready for pickup in 30 minutes." At last, all problems were solved. "Hey," I said, "I've got a surprise for you. Follow me." I dragged Mary into the dark hallway, but the bench was empty; the Prayer Lady was gone.

We drove up Central Avenue toward the local coffee shop, The Daily Grind, for a pre-wake nibble. Several blocks north of the florist, Mary'n and I both spied the Prayer Lady walking slowly under the shade of the awnings. "Pull over, pull over, pull over," we cried. Mary pulled into the next parking spot. "Get out, get out, come with me." I hustled my slightly bewildered sister back to the Prayer Lady. When we reached her, the Prayer Lady stopped and looked up at us. The look on her face made me think she might not remember me. "I was at the florist and you prayed for me," I explained. "This is my sister, Mary. Will you say a prayer for her, too?" The Prayer Lady looked at me. "I awwedy say a pwayoo fo hoo." (I already said a prayer for her.) "Oh," I said, "that was Mary's partner, Mary'n. This is my sister Mary." This did not seem to register, and I did not want to go into the whole lesbian thing with someone who might be a bit on the fundamental side, so I shifted gears, "We are in town for our mother's funeral. Would you say a prayer for our Mom?"

The Prayer Lady looked up at us. "Ih she deeaa?" (Is she dead?") she asked. "Well, yes," I said. "Tha i too yate." It took a moment for this to register. (Then, it's too late.) Obviously the Prayer Lady was not Catholic. The Catholics go into full prayer mode when you die. It's never too late for them! "Well, will you pray for Mary?" I asked her. So, on Central Avenue in front of Rae Baxter's dress shop, Mary and I bent down to the Prayer Lady's height, and the three of us bowed our heads. "Deoo Loh," she said, "I bwing dis woooma to you. ... " (Dear Lord, I bring this woman to you...) Once again, I couldn't be certain what she said, but in the midst of it we both heard her say, "Laween." Laurene is our mother's name — a name we had not given her. She ended, "In Jesus' name, Amen." "Thank you," Mary said. "Don't thank me, thank Jesus Christ," the Prayer Lady responded. Mary smiled. "Him, too."

We smiled and crossed the street to the Daily Grind. "That was really lovely," Mary said, "but how did she know Mom's name?" "I have no idea," I said.

That evening was the wake. The next day, Saturday, was the funeral, which, like everything that weekend, was full of surprises. After the funeral, Mother was escorted by a police-led procession from Sacred Heart church to the Gate of Heaven cemetery. Mary, Mary'n, and I were in the first car behind the hearse. As we drove slowly west on 14th Street, all three of us saw her. "The Prayer Lady, the Prayer Lady, the Prayer Lady," we shouted. There she was, in the same attire as the day before, but walking in a different part of town. We opened the windows and waved frantically, calling, "The Prayer Lady, the Prayer Lady." She stopped, stared at our car crawling slowly toward her, and waved. We couldn't hear her, but we're pretty sure she prayed.

This odd little being prayed for us four times in 24 hours. She prayed for me in the hallway near the bathroom, for Mary'n in the florist shop, for Mary on Central Avenue and now for Mother on West 14th Street.

Who was this little prayer gnome? I called the people at Hefko Florist after I got home from the funeral, and they said no one knows her name or where she lives or where she goes. She just appears every once in a while. But not very often, I guess. I asked people who've lived in Marshfield their entire lives, and they've never seen her. Not even once, never mind four times.

Well, I think I know who she is. She's the Prayer Lady. And I think I know when she appears. When you need a prayer.

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Janet Conner, S.E. (Spiritual Explorer), is the creator of the Spiritual Geography map and book series. She is currently working on a new book, "Writing Down the Soul: How to Activate and Listen to the Extraordinary Voice Within," for Conari Press. The Spiritual Geography books are available through Amazon or Spiritual Geography. Do you have a story about your own conversations with God? Contact Janet at {email janetconner@tampabay.rr.com}janetconner@tampabay.rr.com{/email}.© copyright 2007 by Janet Conner.