Pray-er

I'm not a pray-er.  It feels awkward to me. It feels awkward to me to pray, to listen to others pray, to have others offer to pray for me.  Except for my niece, who prays diligently at every mealtime, snack time, and whenever she serves plastic food on plastic plates, to the tune of "Frere Jacques:"

God our Father

God our Father

Once again

Once again

We bow our heads and thank you

We bow our heads and thank you

God our men

God our men

In this case, I crack up each and every time, despite my best efforts to remain politely stoic.

Vignette 1:

This spring I had a couple dates with a boy despite my suffering from chronic migraines.  I liked being with him because unlike my friends, he didn't yet know about my constant pain and when I was with him I could pretend I was normal again; I didn't have to answer the question, "How are you feeling NOW?" several times per conversation nor suffer through a newly developed theory or suggestion of a cure.  I could smile and nod and dance and hold hands as if the thunderstorm raging inside my head had never begun.

One morning after an episode so intense I could no longer conceal my pain, he asked if I'd ever prayed about it.

"No."

Then, over the breakfast table, he held my hands, palms together, between his and showed me how: "God, please take away Emily's migraines."

Vignette 2:

Once upon a time there was a group of friends.  Two of them were struggling financially.  Another, a godly man, offered, "I'll pray about it."

I got up and stormed out of the room to do dishes.  Another of the friends, an intuitive young man, followed.  He stood silently waiting for me to berate blind faith until I rewarded his patience.  "He shouldn't say things like that!  He shouldn't offer to pray or offer assurance of God's provision unless HE is willing to take part in solving the problem, to be an agent of the answered prayer!"

The next day, the two friends who were struggling each found  a $200 check in their mailboxes.