One night I prayed. It was a quiet prayer, whispered gently from my lips as I knelt at the edge of my bed. I prayed for many things, as I always did. Peace, prosperity, true love, faith, strength, joy—things everyone prays for. And as I prayed, I thought, who am I talking to right now? Who is waiting at the other end of this prayer?—head turned slightly, hand cupped behind their ear.
Who is it that will hear these words?
We all know who hears our prayers, but do we know who listens to them?
Imagine the look on Jesus’ face when you call out to Him.
Is He smiling? Is He laughing, thinking, not this again—I already told you what to do.
When I pray, I imagine that Jesus shakes His head quite often. I imagine He probably rolls His eyes every now and then, too. Because I’m the worrywart child, the one who is always bugging Him, asking if He heard me, if He could just hurry up and answer me now please. I’m always wondering, questioning, poking and prodding at Him. I imagine myself a child pulling at the hem of her father’s cloak as he moves about, neither bothering nor bringing joy, just there—clinging, holding, hanging on. But I am there.
Sometimes I feel He keeps walking because He doesn’t care and it hurts. That’s when I tug harder, reaching as high as I can to yank on the hem of his rob. I try my hardest, struggling to get His attention to no avail. That’s when I throw a fit. I get fussy and I get anxious. A temper tantrum as if reliving the ‘terrible twos’. And when He still doesn’t answer I feel the tears prickling behind my eyes, burning as they surface and run screaming down my face, leaving a puffy redness on my cheeks.
I am broken.
But just when I loosen my grip and begin to pull my fat little hand away, He stops walking. My Father stoops and takes me into His warm, strong arms. Arms that have held me so many times, arms that feel so wonderful as they hug me, pulling me close against his broad chest. And it just hurts so much more because I feel the weight of His pure love around me, crushing me, taking my breath away. And I think of how silly I was to feel ignored by someone who loves me so dearly.
“My child,” He always says, whispered into my ear as he held me. “Don’t you see how much stronger you’ve become?”
Like a light has suddenly been shined on me, my eyes are opened. Reaching up has lengthened my arms, standing on my tiptoes had stretched my legs, holding on so tightly has given me strength I didn’t know I had. I am bigger now, I’m not a child anymore, actually, I am a young woman now and the man holding me is so beautiful.
In this moment of pure joy, a moment alone with Christ Almighty, I think to myself with tears in my eyes; carefully, I may fall for this man.
Have you fallen in love with Jesus yet?
It is the most beautiful thing, I promise.