Just Be

Pray without ceasing.   What must that look like?   Who does t his?   Is my mumbling to God through the thorns of my existence prayer?   Or my too fast thanks that really wasn’t stated with substance, prayer?   I vividly remember, in the cold winter nights, lying in my upstairs bedroom with no heat but the weight of four handmade quilts, wiggling to get warm, lips whispering out the prayer, “Now I lay me down to sleep.   I pray the Lord my soul to keep.   If I die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take.”   My soul appeared to be covered, but what about the rest of my drama life?   Who was I giving that to? Then I grow in my stubborn, independent self and stop praying all together because I’m too mature and wise for such things.   I knew it all and what I didn’t know, I could stumble through and fake my way just enough to pass.   My little inconveniences weren’t really meant for God to hear anyway, since He was busy dealing with world hunger and war and murders.   He seeme