That’s the title of a book I got at the library a few days ago.
I’m not sure why, but I’ve wanted to relearn prayer. It used to come so naturally. In my bedroom as a teen, I had an old folding table set up with candles. I kept a lighter handy: not because I had taken up smoking (fact: smoke of any sort makes me cough), but because I’m horrible with matches. I lit each candle as I prayed, quite literally on my knees some nights, and others just sitting on my bed nearby.
Each candle was for a person in my prayers: the Sunday school teacher with cancer, the family who’d lost a husband and sister in a freak accident, my friend who was laid low by depression, my other friend who grew up too fast, my cousins, my friend’s friends, my sister’s friends, a woman in my mom’s Bible study…so many people.
And I absolutely believed every word I said. I absolutely meant it. Eventually I put the candles away when my fear of fire/having to explain myself/shift toward laying in bed and praying until I fell asleep took precedent, but I prayed every single night.
And then, near the end of high school, I suddenly felt like my words were stopped at the wall next to my bed.
And although I pray irregularly but often still, it’s simply not the same. My prayers come out as clumsy poems or art journal entries. They come out as please please please and thank you thank you thank you and what do i do?
(to be continued)
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