Thou knowest better than I know myself that I am growing older and will some day be old. Keep me from the fatal habit of thinking I must say something on every subject and on every occasion. Release me from the craving to straighten out everybody’s affairs. Make me thoughtful but not moody; helpful but not bossy. With my vast store of wisdom, it seems a pity not to use it all…but Thou knowest, Lord, that I want a few friends at the end. Keep my mind free from the recital of endless details…give me wings to get to the point. Seal my lips on my aches and pains. Thye are increasing, and love of rehearsing them is becoming sweeter as the years go by. I dare not ask for grace enough to enjoy the tales of others, but help me to endure them iwth patience. I dare not ask for improved memory burt a growing humility and a lessening cock-sureness when my memory seems to clash with the memories of others. Teach me the gloriouss lesson that occasionally I may be mistaken. Keep me reasonably sweet. I do not want to be a saint – some of them are so hard to live with – but a sour old person is one of the crowning works of the devil. Give me the ability to see good things in unexpected places and talents in unexpected people. Give me the grace to tell them so.