Prayers

The power of prayer is mysterious

I sit on the edge of my bed. It's a quarter past midnight, but I'm wide awake. My head throbs, and my heart pounds.

Both of my feet are firmly planted on the ground. My hands sit in the space between my legs, forearms resting on my thighs. My fingers interlocked, and my knuckles whitened as my grip tightened around my own hands.

My head fell to rest just above my hands, between my knees. My right hand released its grasp on the left, and touched my forehead, then my chest, then my left and right shoulders, respectively. My head suddenly stopped throbbing, and my heart rate lessened considerably.

I felt His peace wash over me. I felt suddenly calm and collected. My right leg began to twitch, bouncing on the balls of my foot, but I paid it no mind. My thoughts turned only to Him.

I did my usual schtick: thanks for this, sorry for that, could you help me out with this; but then I got down to business.

"But anyway, Lord, I asked her out... She's awesome, man. I think she's great. She's funny, smart, witty, and caring. I can't think of a bad thing about her! I mean, she lives pretty far away, but I know we can work it out."

I flashed a slight grin there. Far away was a wee bit of an understatement, but he knew how far it really was.

"She's great, God. It seems like nothing could go wrong..."

I suddenly felt a sinking feeling in my gut. I felt the blood rush out of my face, and my mouth was suddenly dry. Then I heard it:

"It won't work."

It was a voice from my mind; not my voice, but something otherwise inspired. I had heard this voice before; in times of trouble, or happiness, or deepest of sadnesses. I knew it was Him, but was shocked that He felt that way.

"But why, Lord? It seems perfect!"

No reply.

I took this for exactly what it meant. She wasn't for me. I knew I had to tell her. But how?

I crossed myself once more, ending my prayer. I picked up my pen and pad, and wrote it down. Usually, I spent hours analyzing the syllables of my poetry, making sure it flowed well and made sense.

I need not take such precautions with this piece. The word flowed from my pen, with very little effort. In ten minutes, it was finished. But I was not prepared, and held it from her.

I delivered her the poem two days later. She was understandably upset, but my motives were clear;it just wouldn't work, and I didn't want to hurt her.

God will never make sense to me. Nor will He make sense to anyone else. But I know well enough to trust him, and that He knows what is right. He has never steered me wrong, and I don't believe He ever will.

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[Careline]

...Two days later? Right then you should've done it. So you'd be relieved and she would have fallen less. Because she fell considerably more each day. But it's okay. In doing this, she found her faith again after her anger subsided.