My phone buzzes and I glance down to see her name and a lengthy text that fills the middle of the screen. A thank you and a hope to see you soon and a how can I pray for you?
My mind races over the multitude of things as I re-lock my phone without responding. There’s this and there’s that, I think as I slowly strap on my mask. I could give her pat answers and I kind of just want to. It’s easier to hide here in this little room I’ve created where admittance is allowed only by invitation and a secret handshake.
I add bricks and distance because I don’t want to have to explain my thoughts and actions. I don’t want to divulge the roads I’m walking that lead me to this need for prayer or that one – no matter how difficult and at times painful and confusing these roads are. Roads that aren’t walked because of sin but just the way life seems to play itself out.
So I wait, hold in my fragile hands prayers of all shapes and colors. Unsure how to respond to this person I call friend. It isn’t that I don’t trust her, but more fear because I’m not even sure myself how to pray.
