Prayer is...
Prayer is probably one of the most difficult things for me to write about...which is totally weird. I mean, I AM a prayer junkie. I’ve always been a prayer junkie.
So, why is it so hard for me to write about prayer? Good grief, I am a writer. I AM a pray-er. You’d think it would be totally easy, like natural.
But here’s the deal. Prayer for me is like breathing. If I had to write a book about how to breath I wouldn’t know where to begin. Seriously, you just do it. Breathe in breath out. As long as my lungs and other body parts cooperate it’s a breeze.
I think I need to start writing about prayer by saying I have read a lot of books about prayer. And for every book I’ve read about prayer, I don’t think any of them taught me how to pray or how to be a better prayer. They usually had scriptures about prayer and good examples about people praying, but not much else that was concrete. There wasn’t anything in the words that changed me.
As a kid I was taught to pray in Sunday School when I was young. I have been part of a church for as long as I can remember. I went to Sunday School and Vacation Bible School. I learned how to recite the Lord’s Prayer. I’m glad I learned those words, but I can’t say it really helped me to learn how to pray.
So, how did I learn to pray?
I remember growing up watching my dad take communion at church. I remember watching him drink the wine (grape juice) and eat the wafer. As he sat there, he bowed his head and big tears filled his eyes. In those silent moments, I knew something unexplainable was happening. I didn’t hear the words but I saw the expression on his face. It was gut-wrenching. It was real. It was prayer.
I loved going to church Sunday after Sunday but I only remember ONE thing about church. I remember my Dad taking communion. Every week I looked forward to sitting next to him during communion, seeing him drink from the cup and eat the wafer, and then pray silently. That’s what I learned from going to church. I learned that my dad loved Jesus and was forever sold out to God.
I grew up in an everyday suburban Midwestern neighborhood. I had a Mom and a Dad and one brother. My Mom and my brother were both type AAA, and my Dad and I were both type B. My Dad and I found ways to survive the push and pull that happened regularly with my Mom and my brother. My Dad was an engineer, a WW II Navy Veteran, and he taught Sunday School. He spent hours and hours studying and writing his Sunday School lessons.
From the moment I saw how lines and squiggles on a page formed words that had meaning, I was forever hooked. I lived in my bedroom and I read anything I could get my hands on. I didn’t like dolls, even though I owned dolls. I did like stuffed animals because they were squishy and made it so I could get really comfortable as I read. I would build a nest of squishy stuffed animals and read to my hearts content.
I remember during the summer months my Mom telling me I needed to go outside to play. I hated going outside, but I would tuck a book under my shirt, get a step ladder, climb onto a low tree branch, and read outside. I did that so I could be left alone to read. I was very small for my age so I didn’t ever want to play games or sports. Games and sports were not life.
Reading was life.
In third grade I was given my first Bible. I was thrilled that it was a book that had lots of words with lots of pages. I loved reading my Bible because it had stories in it.
I remember one summer when Billy Graham came to town my church took a bus to go to hear him speak. When I got off the bus and walked into the football stadium that night I know I was with church people who knew me. I know I walked in with them and I sat next to them but I don’t remember them being there.
I only remember one thing. The instant I stepped into the stadium, hurricane like wind swept through me and engulfed me. The wind surrounded me. It was so powerful I could hardly breathe. I started crying and I couldn’t stop. I cried the entire time I was there. I don’t remember any part of the sermon. I don’t remember the prayer.
I remember when the music started after the sermon, the wind swept me off my feet and swooshed me up front. I was still crying as I tried to explain to a man up front what was happening inside me. He smiled and told me it was okay and I would be fine. He prayed with me, but I don’t remember anything about the prayer. All I remember is that I was surrounded and crushed by the wind swirling eyes around me.
Somehow I made it to the bus, made it home, and fell into my dad’s arms. I couldn’t explain what had happened to me, but talked about the wind that swirled around me. I didn’t need to say anything else. Somehow my Dad knew my life had been forever changed. He held me and tears filled his eyes just like they did on Sunday morning during communion. I know my Dad prayed for me that night.
No words passed between us.
While I sat with my Dad, all I could say was, “oh God...oh God...Jesus...Jesus...Jesus.”
And that was my prayer.
Love, Deborah
Commentaires