People ask “When was the last time you prayed?” I am beginning to feel more and more that this is a redundant question. Rather ask, “When was the last time you breathed?” “When was the last time you moved your hand?”
Prayer should be the work of your life, not five minutes of words in your day, not twenty minutes of words in your day.
These are the thoughts I have been having around prayer of late. And so my mother’s day prayer was this:
Sleeping in late, resting my body and soul, while little hands busily put together last minute pictures and crafts. Making chocolate chip waffles for hungry bellies, not having breakfast in bed, listening to the sounds of bedlam from the living room as I stir creamy batter. Walking around Lowe’s with a belly heavy with my third child, looking for a comfortable chair, while my boys play hide and seek in the shopping cart. Hearing little voices from the next aisle over, trying to sneak up on me. Resting on that new chair in the warmth of the sun, on the green grass of my lawn, book in hand, children running through sprinklers, making mud pies, and running up for me to wipe noses and sneak a sip of my iced water. Bedtime snuggles and old stories, singing songs to their little sister in my belly. Sleeping heads on comfortable pillows. Late night thunderstorms and skies as bright as day.
When did I last pray? My whole life is a prayer, of grace, of thankfulness, of desires, of dreams, of the momentary, of the eternal.