Larry tells a story. About a time on his island a few years ago. When he was a guardian, a security guard, a body guard, a comforter, a teacher, a caretaker. In a place where children come and bring more world with them than they ever should have had to carry.
One night, at bedtime, one of the boys asked my dad to teach him how to pray. On his knees beside his bed, he folded his hands and waited for instructions.
My dad told him to tell God how he felt.
And the little boy prayed, "Dear God, I feel like shit."
These are the prayers, which reach the ears of God.
These are the prayers I've been praying. And I can't help but feel a little bit like Esther. Currently living out a story where God is not blatantly making Himself known. And yet His presence in my story is unmistakable.
For such a time as this. I'm not on my knees, but I'm walking down the streets. Praying simply. "This is too much. Today, I don't have what it takes to make it. Today, I feel like shit."
And of course, then, the wind blows.
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