I arrived home late last night and tumbled into bed, saying a few brief prayers as my eyes shut in exhaustion.
When the alarm rang at 5:30 a.m. this morning, I lay in the dark saying a bleary good day to God, not sure exactly which day it was. I perked up a bit as I made my coffee, then stopped drinking in mid-sip when light dawned and I realized I’d forgotten to pray for my children the night before. Totally forgotten. My own kids.
In horror, I mentally reached for the Bad Mommy Award, ready to pin it on my chest and wear it for at least a week. But grace nudged my heart in a different direction, and instead I began to pray—deep and hard—for each of my five children.
Fifteen minutes later my coffee was tepid and my prayers were hot.
It occurred to me that when I fall off the prayer wagon—through understandable exhaustion or unavoidable stress or unfortunate forgetfulness—the thing to do is put a limit on the lamentation and get popping with prayer. For that’s how my relationship with God will get better: not by dwelling on feelings or failings, but through worship and conversation and confession and petition and thanksgiving.
