Once upon a time, I was the pray-er. Have an ache? I’ll lay hands on you. Have a problem? I’ll remember you to the lord. Have an illness? I’ll pray for you. Have a wayward child, a sick relative, a broken relationship? Give me a name and I’ll lift it up.
I believed there was power in prayer. I believed there was a God, that this God was tuned into what I asked for, and that He was kind of at my beck and call. My life hasn’t been perfect or without tragedy, but I’d say it’s more charmed than average. I attributed that to the “hedge of protection” prayed around me by my parents and family.
Lately I have found myself far, far from that belief. Continue reading