I thread the glass beads between my tired fingers in my left hand. My right hand holds the pen to paper. I scratch out prayers in the quiet morning over coffee. God and I meet best in the early hours, my mind needing awakening and my bones still heavy from sleep. I suppose He’d meet me anytime, but I’m most sincere in the morning. I’ve never done well with prayer. It’s always been a hurdle to jump, my brick wall in the marathon of faith. Putting me in a group of people who speak whispered prayers makes me uneasy, and I clam up tight and choose to be quiet. If I speak my prayers, my language changes. I don’t sound...
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