The last couple of posts have been about prayer – the frustrating kind, the empty kind. The kind where words don’t come, or where they come out tangled and sharp-edged. I wanted to say, as much to myself as to anyone else, that this is normal. That struggling with prayer doesn’t mean you’re doing it wrong.
And maybe that’s where this post begins: with the quiet fear that we are (or I am) doing it wrong.
I wonder what you were taught prayer should look like. Maybe it was the “classic” pose: hands together, fingers pointing upwards, eyes closed, head bowed, finished with a confident Amen. There’s something comforting about that shape, something familiar. It’s a good way to pray.
But it’s not the only way.
Maybe you’ve heard people pray in a way that feels almost like poetry, words flowing, beautifully chosen, weaving together things you wouldn’t have thought to say. And maybe you’ve found yourself listening, grateful they’re praying, but quietly thinking, I could never do that. That, too, is a beautiful way to pray.
But it’s not the only way.
Maybe your prayers have followed a pattern – thank you, sorry, please – whispered at the end of the day, half-asleep, somewhere between habit and hope. There’s something steady and grounding in that rhythm.
But it’s not the only way.
Because if the last couple of posts have reminded us (me) of anything, it’s this: prayer isn’t always polished. Sometimes it’s frustrated. Sometimes it’s silence. Sometimes it’s just a sigh that barely forms into words. And those prayers count too.
When Jesus teaches about prayer, he points people away from performance. Not the loud, showy kind that draws attention, but something quieter, more hidden, more real. Prayer that isn’t about being seen, but about being known.
Because God isn’t listening out for eloquence. He’s listening for you. Not the tidied-up version. Not the carefully edited version. Just you, as you are, distracted, honest, tired, hopeful, unsure.
Maybe prayer doesn’t need to cover everything. Maybe it doesn’t need to sound like poetry or follow a structure or end neatly. Maybe it’s allowed to be incomplete, because we are. At its simplest, prayer is just relationship, a conversation shaped by who we are, with the God who made us that way. And if each of us is different, then it makes sense that our prayers would be too.
So perhaps the invitation isn’t to pray better. Perhaps it’s to stop trying quite so hard. To lay down the pressure to be eloquent, or complete, or impressive. To let your prayers be as scattered or as simple as they need to be. Because God isn’t waiting for perfection.
He is only ever waiting for you.
The Reason for my Hope Blog 