Sometimes I find prayers lodged deep within me, crammed tight like a bulging closet, ready to tumble out if only a little space is given. They clamor and whine within, pestering like a kennel full of caged puppies.
If only they can be heard. If only they can be let out. Oh, if only the door were opened but a crack, they would take off, never to return, hitting their stride quickly out of the gate of my mouth and ascending, bounding through the air to their heavenward yellow ribbon.
Galloping toward God these prayers would be.
Hard to Release What You Don’t Realize
But they are confined until released.
And I frequently don't release them, because I don't realize them.
I don't realize what is there and who I am and what I was made for.
So I putter and race and talk and read and fix and carry and listen, but I do not pray.
Because I don't realize or else, won't realize.
At some point though, as if God himself has tapped me on the shoulder to remind me I have but seconds of held breath left, like a skin-diver frantic to get to the surface for fresh air, I start to the place of prayer.
A Traffic Jam of Rude Commuters
At first, like a diver who has lingered long underwater, I am frenzied and disoriented. I want to say everything all at once as quickly as I can.
As my mind seeks to control the traffic of rude commuters within, inevitably a jam occurs. A fear, a praise, a request, an anxiety, a matter of special importance. Each tries to make its way to the front and confusion ensues.
Before long, the mangled mess of my unquiet mind makes rush hour on 1-75 in Atlanta seem like a well-choreographed marching formation; seamless, orderly, and gliding.
Fortunately though, there is a traffic cop on the scene, God himself, present as Spirit, who begins to pry apart the gridlock so the traffic can flow. Soon, there is a rhythm, especially as the Scriptures are consulted. They serve as a GPS of sorts which mystifyingly locates the coordinates in my soul that need the most attention, and therefore serve, as my starting address with God.
Rocket Blasters of Prayer
Eventually, as the Scriptures re-introduce me to God and myself, I’ll encounter a startling jolt of spiritual caffeine calling my inner-man to heightened attention. Electricity for my dead-batteried heart will pulse and dance within. Suddenly, rocket blasters of prayer will ignite within and out of me will fly what most craved to be uttered.
As the words come out, the cabin pressure begins to regulate in my heart. The pent-up prayers have been released and handed over to their rightful Owner.
Ushered into Reprieve
Then, like an armored truck driver after safely securing the day’s transported funds from the bank, there is relief.
The Savior has received what demanded to be said. He has ushered me into the reprieve of a man who suddenly realizes after years of restless sleep, dull headaches and fatigued mornings that he simply had apnea, and the ailment can be corrected. Vitality can be restored.
I realize, after engaged prayer like this, so frequently, that soothing restoration.
Then I understand why our Adversary concludes in The Screwtape Letters that, “the best thing, where it is possible, is to keep the patient (us) from the serious intention of praying altogether.”
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Eric Youngblood is the senior pastor at Rock Creek Fellowship (PCA) on Lookout Mountain. Please feel free to contact him at eric@rockcreekfellowship.org or follow him on Twitter @GEricYoungblood.