Andrea Sanborn

Lord, teach us to pray, his followers asked.

As Jews, they had been schooled in prayer from infancy. The Shema. The Amidah. The Kaddish. Prayers recited and spoken multiple times a day for their whole lives. And yet, still they asked.

What was different about Jesus’s prayer? The words were familiar, but on his lips, they lingered. Tasted sweet.

“Our Father in Heaven”, he breathed, and they sensed the tenderness of family and home in his voice.

Countless books have been written about prayer. Systems created. Patterns and schedules to follow. How are we supposed to get it right, this enormous privilege placed in our hands?

There is no one answer to this. God heeded Daniel’s measured, scheduled prayers just as surely as David’s tears and wails in the desert.

Prayer is attention. Lingering in the presence of love Himself. Stepping through the temple curtain torn, its ragged threads a testimony of the strength of His desire for us.

Prayer is coming home. Relationship. Comfort.

Prayer is humility. Perspective. Possibility.

We cast our cares upon him, because he cares for us. We lift our eyes to the hills in sacred trust.

“Our Father,” we breathe, our words like incense before him. Our tears, kept.

Before the lists, the scripts, the schedules, let there be simply attention. Rest in our belonging. Peace in our welcome.

“Absolute unmixed attention is prayer,” philosopher Simone Weil wrote. “Fix your eyes on Jesus,” said the writer of Hebrews. “I lift my eyes to you”, the Psalmist sang.

I, too, have had lists, schedules, and patterns of prayer to help me focus. To guide my intercession. I have an app on my phone and a prayer journal by my chair. But before I pray for something, I must remember that I am praying to someone.

Someone who meets me here in the quiet of his love. In the sanctuary of his welcome.

So come, all you weary ones. All you hesitant ones, fearful of getting it wrong. All you grateful ones; all you lonely. Come needy. Come joyful. Come with words, and without.

The Father is listening for your voice, shaky and unsure. For your song. Your tears. Your whispered wondering. Your anxious thoughts.

Our Father in Heaven. Taste the sweetness of that assurance. Savor the goodness of your future home.

There is more—so much more! But for now, for today…just come.