It started one summer when I was a teen. My uncle was the bishop and his duties kept him busy for long hours often away from home, especially since the care of another church in a neighboring state had been placed on his shoulders. His wife was pregnant and by all appearances due to have their baby at any time.
He was once again called away to take care of some church matters, leaving his wife at home alone. I was sure it would be most unpleasant for her to have the baby while he was gone, and so I prayed. There was no prayer in the little black prayer book the Amish used for a situation like this so I stepped out on a limb and prayed my own prayer asking God to keep Anna from having her baby until her husband could be with her.
Several weeks later they had the baby. A little boy who died during labor.
I was devastated and absolutely certain it was all my fault. I had meddled where I ought not have, and had dared to talk to God without the use of that little prayer book, and now the baby died because of it.
It was all so horrible that I couldn't tell anyone what I had done. I carried that guilt for years, before realizing it was not mine to bear. That my little prayer had nothing to do with their baby passing away. It was such a relief to finally realize that.
Guilt, when misplaced and irrational is an awful thing to bear.