For the other women in the commune, prayer was a time of devotion. We shuffled into the prayer room at exactly 10am every day, smiling, our hands clasped together over our modest cotton dresses, looking forward to half an hour with no children to see to, no food to prepare, no chores, only the truth of God in our thoughts and tongues. Ever since I was eighteen and old enough to go there, I too had treasured the time, listening to the other women, feeling the power of the word strengthen us, and being guided by our prayer teacher, always an older man of some experience. Recently though, I had begun to be distracted.