Praying

During the Shloshim I was very diligent and prompt about attending morning services in our synagogue, which begin at 6:30 on the days when the Torah is not read, and at 6:20 when it is read (Mondays and Thursdays). I led the prayers except on days when other men had yahrtsait (the anniversary of a family member's death), and I only missed praying with a minyan of at least nine other men on the two days when it snowed in Jerusalem, and a full minyan didn't show up. I was also diligent about praying three times a day, something I hadn't done for quite a while (I went through a long observant period, which has fallen apart in the past few years). I found myself enjoying the fellowship of other worshipers early in the morning and more or less planned to continue.
Do I believe that prayer alleviates the suffering of Asher's soul and raises it up? No. Do I believe that Asher's soul still exists, now that his body is dead - not seriously. Do I believe in a God who will resurrect the dead at the end of days? Not at all. In fact, I barely believe in God. If anything, I believe in the idea of God as an aspiration, a human thought that is an improvement on the real world. So what was I praying for, and whom was I praying to? I was praying as part of my effort to put my world back together after the horrible loss we suffered. I was also praying because it was expected of me by the people of our religious community, and in honor of Asher's memory.
But the continuity was broken, and I stopped attending morning services and more or less stopped praying again.
On the Shabbat after the Shloshim, our daughter was here with her children, and she came down with serious tonsilitis. I drove her home in her car before sundown (violating the Sabbath publicly) and stayed overnight there to help her take care of herself and of the kids. The following evening (Sunday), I was due to have a rehearsal of the big band, the first one I was to participate in since Asher's funeral, so I brought my baritone sax with me and planned to say at least until Monday morning. That meant that I couldn't have gone to services for at least two days. I didn't even take my prayer paraphernalia with me - my prayer book, my prayer shawl, and my tefillin (black leather cubes containing parchments with biblical verses written on them that Jewish men strap onto themselves when they prayer on weekday mornings) - suddenly I didn't want to pray anymore.