When you don’t know how to pray or what to say anymore. You’ve exhausted every word and every mutter. Then you went to the thesaurus and started again. Another way.
When you’re so focused on the back of the red door that you don’t see the crack in the window. Until a friend four states away points it out to you. You’re simply too afraid to look anymore.
When you’re sure you’re trapped and suffocating from the disappointments. Bracing yourself for the next one, so (in)tense that you realize your toes are curled. Breathe.
A fellow traveler offers to pray for you. You wonder if it will do any good. You agree, and they pray now because you're out of words. (A writer without words? A tragedy.) But you have to let them do that for you. That is their gift. You barely get out a “thank you” from the weariness and the tears and the sighing.
Then you’re driving down Antioch in the light of day. Light. The only thing that can penetrate darkness.
Suddenly, you hear the Word. A string of them so sweetly spoken that you want to hear them again. They are simple. So much simpler than the ones you started with years ago.
A Voice. That’s what you need. And Ears. That’s what you pray.
You didn’t need to look for the words. He gave you the words to you. The Word told you the words He’s longing to hear from you. Spoken aloud. Spoken in your heart. Spoken through tears. Any way you want to say them.