“God, I’ll wait.
I’ll wait. I’ll wrestle. I’ll stay. I want a new name……
….. God, take my fears and my doubts and my worries about you and help me to believe that you are good— that you have good for me.”
We prayed for three hours.
Three hours. That is worth repeating once more: three hours.
There is little that I do for three hours. In fact, there is currently a list— a very short list— of things I am capable of doing for three-hours blocks of time. Those things include:
Reading a good book.
Eating copious amounts of nachos.
Watching anything Bradley Cooper related.
That’s about it. It’s a pretty short list. Prayer has never made the cut.
Still, in spite of me, we prayed for three hours. This is all because I found myself stumbling into a small chapel on Saturday. It was instantly myself and four students of a ministry in Atlanta. I didn’t know a single one. Sprawled out across chairs in a small chapel, tucked in the back of a white brick building, I eyed the plain walls covered in Sharpie marker prayers.
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