I can't pray anymore.

It's not that I don't try. I've sat in church. I've kneeled at the Grotto. I've laid in bed. But the words don't come. My heart is empty.

Three and a half months ago, one of my best friends from high school was killed in a car accident. During Christmas break, I visited his parents several times, took his younger sister out to dinner, and visited Adam's grave three times.

I longed for Notre Dame, where I could lose myself in work and friends — and forget. I tried to pray at home, but I couldn't. I went to Mass only once over break, on Christmas, and felt hypocritical. How could I be there, praying to a God, I thought might not exist?

Last night, I went to Mass for Conor. I thought back to freshman year when he came to an SYR with my friend Mary. I remembered when he and his friends would come over on Wednesday nights to watch Party of Five. They would complain about little Owen and his stupid, whiney character. Conor had a wonderful sense of humor.

In Zahm's chapel, I watched Conor's best friends sitting in the pews, receiving communion, and quietly sobbing to themselves. I could see how much they missed him. I thought of Adam and what it felt like to be them. I tried to pray. But I couldn't. My heart was empty.

I had a conversation with Adam's dad over Christmas. He said to me, "Life is a trial. God keeps knocking you down, and you just have to have faith through the entire thing, and know in the end, it will be worth it."

Then he said something that rings in my ears to this day: "I prayed every time Adam walked out the door, that God would keep him safe. What good did that do? I just don't know how to pray anymore."

Last night, I wished for a miracle. I tried praying that Conor would live, so his friends would not have to go through the pain, the hopelessness, the depression. But like Adam's dad's prayer, mine went unanswered.

When I heard Conor passed away, I immediately went to the Grotto, lit a candle and kneeled. Once again, I tried to pray, but I couldn't. My heart was still empty.

I hope someday my faith will return, my heart will feel peace, and I will pray. If you're lucky, if your heart has not been hardened, and if you can find the words — please PRAY.

Pray for Conor's mother and father.

Pray for his sisters.

Pray for his friends.

Pray for Meghan.

If my experience rings true, they might have a hard time praying this weekend.

When I returned from the Grotto, I sat down at my desk to write my mother an email. My little calendar with daily advice had fallen and was flipped open to Nov. 12. It said, "God understands our prayers even when we can't find the words to say them."

Tears flowed down my cheeks. It was the little sign I needed to know God is here.

So please, pray to Him, for all of us who can't.

• Finding the words