“Well, have you prayed about it?” my mother asks as she gently rubs her thumb over my eyebrow.  My long blonde hair rests in little nests on the pillows on my parents’ bed as I lay on my back staring intently at the ceiling.  With the utterance of her question, I feel my teenage eyes start to roll and I can hear my frustration sizzle against the cool blue sheets.  “Why do you always say that?” I snap.  “That doesn’t help me at all.  I don’t know what to do and now you’re just telling me to pray!?”  I can feel the words sting my lips as they leave my…