My Prayers Changed

I've witnessed it before.

Prayers spoken in a church in Kenya.

I saw it last month.

When I was there.

It's startling.

The difference.




Here.

The prayers I've heard and seen.

Are often.

Measured.

Memorized.

Emotionless.

Void of expectations.




Not there.

Once the pastor initiates prayer.

The dirt floor.

One room church.

 Is flooded with voices.

Voices of people praying out loud.

All at the same time.

Not quiet prayers.

But pleading prayers.

Talking out loud prayers.

In a simple, tin-roofed church.

I imagined the voices were billowing up.

Like smoke drifting up toward the heavens.

And I knew.

He had to hear them too.

Some of the mamas were down on their knees.

Others were sobbing.

Pleading.

Pouring out their hearts.

It's always startling.

The genuineness.

The belief.

They pray.

Like people who believe.

He hears them.



And.

My prayers changed.

From witnessing it.

It's been my practice for many years now.

To begin my day with Him.

Early.

Before anyone else is up.

And in the privacy of that space.

I've learned to get honest too.

There's something about approaching prayer.

And visualizing.

That Jesus has pulled a chair.

Right up next to mine.

And He's leaning forward.

Towards me.

Waiting.

And listening.

For what I have to say.



When I think of Him there.

I get honest.

And as I get honest.

Many times.

The tears flow.

Yeah.

Often times.

Tears are my genuine barometer.

My tears mean I'm getting down to what's really on my heart.

Fear.

Disappointment.

Worry.

Discouragement.

Hopes.

Dreams.

Thankfulness.



Whatever's on my plate.

Or going on in my day.

I get it out.

And get it said.




Just like the voices billowing out of that small church in Kenya.

They prayed like people who believe.

Believe that God really does hear their prayers.




And because I know it too.

My prayers.

Have.

Changed.