We lean across the table, straining to hear each other. “What are your prayer requests?” the leader asks, pen poised above her notebook. We speak hesitantly into the holiness of being heard. A hurting relative. A wayward child. Relational struggles. Fears. Change. Outside, we manage. We persevere. But here, around this table, our vulnerability weaves us together in sympathy and shared faith.

This is the culture I’ve breathed since a child. I see the gift of it now. Decades of sharing prayer requests have followed me as a blessing. A reminder. Our sorrows and anxieties are not forgotten or overlooked. Instead, our hearts are gently held in those moments together.

It is a beauty not often seen outside church culture. Perhaps in therapeutic spaces, but not, I’d wager, at the local garden club meeting or book club gathering. It is a privilege to share our cares with others.

I wonder, sometimes, if we realize the healing inherent in sharing our prayer requests. Of the relief that comes when our words are accepted, our hands joined in solidarity as we enter God’s throneroom together.

Surely he planned it this way. “Our Father”, the Lord’s Prayer begins. Ours, not just mine—praise and petition lifted in community; unlikely siblings circled up, joining up, holding up—a small army of purpose.

Personal prayer is essential. The Bible is replete with examples of God’s people meeting with him in the wilderness, in caves, or on mountains. But oh, the sweetness of sharing this sacred space with others.

My earliest encounter with Christianity was in these meetings, gathered in a living room, speaking cares and longings in confidence with others who held them tenderly up to our Father. It drew me in; witnessing their vulnerability in a loving group of believers confident that they were heard and held. I have now been in this culture so long that sometimes I forget how precious this is; how unlike the world at large, where we are determined to prove ourselves, our strength and sufficiency hiding our wounds and weaknesses.

It takes courage to come to this table. Vulnerability isn’t always easy to give or receive, so we must be willing to forgive when we are dismissed or given advice instead of given the care we came for. We are humans, after all, prone to speak more than listen. To fix more than heal. We have each hurt and been hurt in these places. But it is a beautiful thing to persevere as we sharpen each other, piercing heaven together in spite of our failures.

We bow our heads now, holding hands and hopes, speaking life over the weary, casting cares and dreams before the One who hears and acts. The One who listens and loves. The One who fills the hungry and comforts the sorrowful. The One who holds our words in his wounded hands, counting them precious as they rise like incense to heaven.

Then those who feared the Lord talked with each other, and the Lord listened and heard. A scroll of remembrance was written in his presence concerning those who feared the Lord and honored his name.

Malachi 3:16