A Week of Prayer . . . and My Worst Week in Six Months

Undaunted and cheerful (not always the case), I prepared paella for the 40 members of our youth group and their parents. As I stirred in shrimp, artichokes, and spicy rice . . . as I set each utensil on the placemats . . . and as I lit the French vanilla candles in each centerpiece, God’s presence inspired me. Each act was a prayer.

Two days later, I received the topic for this piece: “to view our work as an ongoing expression of faith.” A God-incidence. Armed with prayer and good intentions, I resolved in the coming week to make every action a beautiful expression of faith. In one week, I’d have a list of good examples for my essay.

And I had the worst week in six months.

First stop: the tennis court on a windy day that promised to send us all to Oz. Angrily trying to make contact with a schizophrenic airborne orb, I prayed, “God help me hit the dadgum ball.” Wrong prayer. For the tennis game to be an expression of faith, I must center myself in Christ and lose the bad mood.

Next stop: a confrontation at work so loaded that my boss offered to step in for me. After serious prayer, I picked up the telephone and braced for my antagonist’s acid rain by mentally preparing a pointy umbrella of my own. By God’s grace, however, right words came out of my mouth, and he responded in kind.

Next stop: the Texas Department of Public Safety for my son’s license. Eight hours on and off, three big checks, and mounds of paperwork later, he had the long-awaited piece of paper. Throughout that day, I took deep breaths and prayed silently not to collapse or scream. (Results were mixed, but better than if I hadn’t prayed.) As I watched my son drive away in a car with a muffler loud enough to raise the dead, my eyes clouded. I prayed for angels on his wheels, angels in his engine, angels to protect the surrounding cars, and angels to guide his 16-year-old brain.

Other stops that week: a bone spur, resulting bursitis in my shoulder (and a prayer not to complain); nine people ahead of me in the grocery line when the register broke (and a prayer to start a pleasant conversation with the woman ahead of me in line); and a host of encounters that might have otherwise been edged with impatience instead of grace.

No need to mention the times I forgot to pray, rushed into situations powered by my own notions of How to Handle This. What matters is that I learned that God is at my side whether I see Him or not. Every word, every gesture, every thought—whatever the situation—is a potential prayer.