The Desire to Pray
She walked beside her pastor through the gardens outside her church. A late spring Sunday, and the roses were in bloom. There were red and pink blossoms to their right. Tiny yellow roses, and a few whites to their left. Had she been alone she would have taken a sniff. After all, Mac Davis did say we should 'Stop and Smell the Roses'.
"I am troubled," she said. She wasn't sure if she wanted to speak to the pastor, or the deacon. But her pastor was here and the moment seemed right. "I desire to move closer to God in my prayer life, but I find it difficult. Sometimes... just reciting a formulated prayer leaves me feeling empty. I need to know how to pray... I guess."
"Formulated prayer leaves you empty?" His question bit into the cool air of the morning.
"Sometimes."
"Prayer is not about OUR feelings," he said, before adding, "Do you pray daily?"
"Most days."
"And when would that be?"
"Usually I try to pray before I go to bed."
He stopped walking by a bush adorned with pink blossoms. She stopped a few strides ahead of him and turned back. He took a deep breath. She rubbed her hands together, nervously. Members of the church had referred to their pastor as a pompous Pharisee. She felt that description was harsh.
"Is that the only time you pray?" He queried with a haughty attitude, sharpening his words. "I pray when I wake in the morning. I pray on my walk over to the church from the parsonage. I pray when leaving the church. I pray before every meal... and after. I pray to end my day, on my knees at the side of my bed with my hands folded. You do the same, and prayer will not be difficult."
She nodded her head, as if she agreed, turned and walked alone from the garden to her car. She glanced back once and saw him squatting by the rose bush, nurturing the plant. In the conversation, she had gained nothing, but more confusion.
That night, the pastor was called in his sleep. He faced Jesus.
"How foolish you are," the Lord said. "Don't you know, the desire to pray is sufficient for me."
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