"You always looked bored in church," my mother said, thinking back to my Catholic school-girl youth and her failed efforts to engage me in the religion that is her life.

She said this during one of our always very brief discussions about religion. Half of her four children stayed with the faith. My older sister and I instead chose opposite extremes: She, evangelical Christianity and me, after years of searching, Unitarian Universalism.

As you might guess, my older sister and I don't talk much about religion either.

Traditional religion and I never clicked. And God - er, god - knows I've tried. I stayed with Catholicism a couple years into college, mostly because I liked singing those gorgeous, old hymns. And also because the college guy I was hot for was a seemingly devout, though often hungover, Catholic. Lusting for him over the brim of a hymnal seemed a sacred experience.

When the infatuation faded, so did my attendance at the campus church.

It wasn't until after my divorce, with a child on my conscience, that I thought much about religion again. I tried the Episcopal church - Catholics without Mary but with married church leaders from all I could see. Then the Lutheran. Surely the religion of Garrison Keillor would soothe my restless theological heart. I stuck with it for a few weeks, and then was off again. Searching still.

Traditional religions, and the idea of a judgemental or personal God, don't make sense to me. Yet neither does the idea that butterflies, flowers, music and the human heart are accidents. In my mind, whatever force created the world is mysterious beyond our knowing, or even guessing.

I finally found religion - my religion - at a ski resort a decade ago. Then a Silverthorne resident, I decided to check out a Unitarian church that met at Copper Mountain Resort. Even then, I resisted. Too ... loosey-goosey, I thought. Yet I went back. And back again. I was like a wild, perhaps desperately hungry animal lured by a pan of food left at the back door. Skittish about religion in general, yet drawn by what many contend is a human need for a spiritual home.

A year ago, seduced by the all-accepting nature of it, the emphasis on good works and the golden rule, I became a member of a Denver Unitarian church. And within months, a member of the church choir - a powerfully talented collection of people whose voices moved me to tears on an almost weekly basis. This, I've since discovered, becomes problematic when you're a member of the choir. But I'm working on it.

The great challenge of Unitarianism is that, in its efforts to enfold people of all backgrounds and beliefs, it must tiptoe around a few things. Like the word "God."

The word isn't taboo. But neither is it sprinkled liberally into Unitarian conversations.

The choir finds creative ways to avoid the word. We sing hymns in Latin. Often. Enough to make my Catholic mother proud. And a few in languages I do not know, and am too embarrassed to ask. We sing folk songs, songs about nature, songs from other cultures. All of them - God or no god -soul-achingly beautiful or soul-piercingly uplifting.

There is also a notable absence of the word "Jesus" - far easier to dodge than God. And "prayer."

I don't miss "God" or "Jesus." But to my surprise no more than anyone else's, "prayer" has become another matter.

It's only because I fell in love with a song. A simple song we sang once during my first performance with the choir. It was intended to set a peaceful, hopeful mood for church members verbally offering their Joys and Sorrows to the congregation. These are a regular part of a Unitarian service.

Though accompanied by soloists, the choir's only words to this song were, "we pray." The song struck its intended chord, moving the congregation so much that the majority of the members who spoke - even those offering Joys - cried or choked back tears.

The idea was that this song perhaps could become part of the weekly service. But it was shelved after its first outing. Several people, among them choir members, had objected to the word "pray."

At first, Iacquiesced. I hadn't been wild about singing the word either. But I began toponder its meaning. What was prayer really, but a wish of sorts? Out ofcuriosity, I Wikipediaed it. And this is what I found: "Prayer is the actof attempting to communicate with a deity or spirit. ... Secularly, the termcan also be used as an alternative to 'hope'."

The decision was final, however. The word 'prayer' is too tightly associated with the traditional religions from which many of the church members - myself included - had fled.

Unitarian Universalism meshes with my beliefs and fills my spirit more than I had, in all my years of searching, ever imagined a religion could.Such efforts to accept and engage all are among the many reasons I love it.

But I've come to see that no religion can offer its followers everything, which makes this church's admirable quest an impossible one. In its efforts to accommodate all, even it must draw a line in the sand between what is tolerable and what is not.

This quandary extends beyond religion into politics, business and everyday human interaction. Precisely because we are all so beautifully, tragically and miraculously varied, someone will always feel slighted or left out.

All we can do then is try. To do our best to accept, respect and even love our differences.

For the miracle that we will ever truly do so we can only hope. Or perhaps instead, pray.