Lavished Devotion

There is no wrong place to pray. I pray at my desk, on my living room floor, on the couch beside my dogs, in my bed, beside my bed, in the bathroom, in the shower, in the car on my way to work, walking down the street, in the morning when I wake up, in the evenings before I fall asleep. There is no wrong way to pray. I pray with my eyes, closed, with my eyes open, with my knees on the ground, standing up, sitting down, curled into a ball, holding my own hands, moving my hands around, raising my hands in the air, holding someone else’s hands.  There is no wrong way to say a prayer. Some days I repeat myself over and over, some days I cry, some days I get angry, some days I tell Him everything, some days I can’t seem to tell Him anything, some days I use flowery language, some days I use foul language, some days I use hardly any language. Help me, I whisper.  There is no wrong place to pray, there is no wrong way to pray, there is no wrong way to talk to our Creator, our Father, our best friend, our God.

Grief, I’ve learned, is really just love. It’s all the love you want to give, but cannot. All that unspent love gathers up in the corners of your eyes, the lump in your throat, and in that hollow part of your chest. Grief is just love with no place to go