It was way back in ’08 when I first proposed that America needed a “National No-Prayer Week.”
The premise was that maybe after more than 2,000 years of fervent prayer — prayer for everything from world peace to that the floating guppie would reanimate — maybe God had fallen behind, that maybe He could use a break.
I wasn’t suggesting anyone stop believing in God. Just for one week quit bugging him.
This was back when I mistakenly believed I could solve all my occupational woes by crafting one big idea that would have me simultaneously hailed as either a visionary on Fox News and a heretic on CNN or vice versa.
Remember 2008? It was a time of conflict, ignorance and widespread division that fell along political and cultural divides.
Or as I call it, “The Good ol’ Days!”
But with all the global tumult, I’ve put a renewed focus on saving the human race through prayer.
Only this time instead of suggesting we stop praying my idea is that we start praying … and NEVER stop.
It may surprise most of you, my heathen friends, but I’m a praying fool. I pray all the time, most notably at the family dinner table. It’s a role I relish because I want our daughters to know we can, in my opinion, address the Almighty in casual terms about mundane matters.
I think we construct obstacles between ourselves and our Creator when we say our prayers with speech that feels foreign coming out of our own mouth.
It’s why, too, I conclude prayers with things like asking God to tell Tom Petty we still miss him.
This alertness proved helpful Easter Sunday when I turned the holy communications over to the females. I did this because I’m in a bit of a prayer rut.
My prayers have become mopey and aggrieved, not like I’m addressing our deity, but like I’m complaining to the Wendy’s drive-thru manager over the dorky kid giving me a medium Coke and charging us for the Biggie.
“Dear God … Please rid the world of coronavirus, rampant injustice, poverty, petty hatreds, the tyrannical rule of Roger Goodell and all the other punishing crap that makes being alive such sorry condition. I mean … Dear God!”
So insolent. So disrespectful. I knew I needed a break.
So on Easter, I began my aloud prayer with, “Dear God … thank you for this food and for all this government-sanctioned family togetherness. Oh, man, our blessings in that realm sure are ample. I’ll now, Lord, turn it over to Val, Josie and Lucy who I now invite to share with you in silence their gratitudes and concerns.”
The immediate effect was peacefulness. The house was blessedly still and quiet.
Ten seconds passed. My head was bowed and my eyes were closed I suspect the girls were already beginning to exchange nervous looks.
Ten seconds is a long time to be thrown into a blind date with The Creator.
At 20 seconds, I began to wonder who’d break first. I could, by now, feel their eyes on me, waiting for me to conclude. But I had no intention of relenting. I wanted them to pray ’til Kingdom come.
Maybe God would answer their prayers.
Maybe He did because at 30 seconds Val abruptly interjected “Amen! Let’s eat.”
Who knows? Maybe Mommy’s action was exactly what they were praying for. Someday I’ll ask.
Either way, it’s more evidence my supper table schemes are working.
The kids listen to my prayers!
I just wish I could be sure God does.
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2 comments:
Oh He does, Chris, He does. Thanks for sharing. 🙏🙏🙏
I'm sure He does, too. Thanks, Ardi!
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