How I learned to Pray

There have been times in my life when I have had a hard time praying.

Sometimes I was in too much emotional or physical pain and I couldn’t utter a word. Other times, my prayers became repetitive and, as much as I hate to admit it, I was bored. There have even been moments when I wondered if praying would make a difference.

But I learned about prayer long before I understood any of that.

I learned by watching my mother.

When I was little, I noticed that every once in a while my mom would disappear into a room and shut the door.

I wanted to know what she was doing in there.

I’d seen her go in a few times before, quietly closing the door behind her. I wanted to follow her, but somehow I knew this was something for grown-ups.

Eventually, she let me in on her secret.

She was praying.

I remember going into that room with her and kneeling beside her on the floor. I listened closely because I wanted to hear what she was going to say to God.

And there was nothing fancy about it.

She thanked God for our food, our clothes and the roof over our heads. She prayed for friends and neighbors. She prayed for our safety.

And then she prayed for her children.

One after another.

I was one of five, and I listened as my mother gave each of us to God. She trusted Him with us in a way I probably couldn’t understand then.

But I saw it.

I saw her bowed beside me. I heard her words. I saw the tears in her eyes.

And I learned something about prayer that day that has stayed with me all these years.

A closet can become a prayer room once you shut the door.

My prayer life certainly hasn’t been perfect since then.

I have prayed desperate prayers. I have prayed the same prayer over and over. I have kept knocking when God seemed silent. I have written prayers down and looked back years later and realized God had been working when I couldn’t see it.

I have also learned that I don’t have to come to Him with the right words.

Sometimes there aren’t any words.

I can come scared. Angry. Confused. Grateful. Hopeful. Or completely worn out.

Prayer isn’t a performance. It is talking to the God who already knows me.

Maybe that is what my mother was teaching me all those years ago without either one of us realizing it.

She wasn’t teaching me a formula for prayer.

She was showing me where to go.

And all these years later, I’m still going there.

Sitting quietly

Propped up in a chair

What on earth

Was she doing in there?

I’d seen her go in

A few times before

Entering quietly

Shutting the door

I wanted to follow

But somehow, I knew

It was for grown-ups

Must be something they do.

Abraham beget Isaac

She read from this book

My sister would giggle

Then came that look.

We read it through

From cover to cover

Through that warm summer

Next to our mother.

One day she took

Me to her side

It’s time that you know

Where I go hide.

The Bible tells us

In Matthew Chapter 6

To go into a room

To pray in secret.

She took my hand

As I followed behind

Excited to share

In my mother’s great find.

We entered the room

She shut the door

We knelt side by side

There on the floor.

I looked at her bowed

Starting to pray

I listened really close

What on earth would she say?

She thanked the Lord

For this little while

I nudged in real close

Catching her smile.

For I could tell

She was excited to be

Sharing that moment

Kneeling by me.

Thank you for our food

Our daily bread

For the clothes on our backs

A roof over our head.

She prayed for her friends

A neighbor to our right

She prayed for our safety

When out of her sight.

She prayed for her children

One after the other

The first time I witnessed

The love of a mother.

She gave us to God

Trusting in His ways

Asking Him to be with her

Throughout this day.

When she was done

I saw in her eye

A tear from heaven

As she started to cry.

I gave her a shirt sleeve

Having fallen to the floor

I learned a closet becomes a prayer room

Once you shut the door.

By Leslie Sousa