If prayer is simply communicating with the Father, then it doesn’t have to look the same for everybody all the time. I communicate with people in a multitude of ways: facial expressions, text messages, phone calls, in person, and (on rare occasion these days) with a hand-written note. My prayers don’t always include a “Dear God” and an “Amen”. Sometimes there are words. Sometimes I just point. Sometimes I scream. Sometimes I sit in silence and just emote. Sometimes, as a means of intercession, I write parable-esque vignettes of how I would like things to be. The following is one such vignette.
Her white tunic once billowed on breezes with soft waves of elegance, revealing her status as both warrior and princess. An outer reflection of inner turmoil, it now clings to her frame stained and torn. Contour and eyeliner, smudged beyond recognition now, once camouflaged the insecurity and pain that remain.
A leather shield hangs at her side, scarred with purpose, having served her well. She finds herself too weak to raise it again.
Sea blue eyes tell stories of fear and strength; of sadness and hope; of battles won, battles lost, and battles still being fought. They portray compassion and loyalty and beg the same of those they perceive.
The last battle depleted her, leaving her abandoned in an unknown territory, where she longs to stop fighting and rest. Instead she stumbles aimlessly, resigned to an inevitable collapse, tears ruining any remnants of a cosmetic façade.
She startles when a strong, calloused thumb grazes her cheek. A kind man wipes her tears and, in so doing, removes the last traces of makeup, simultaneously evoking in her feelings of tender comfort and raw vulnerability.
He has rescued her before. He nursed her from death to life and bandaged her wounds, the self-inflicted ones as well as the repeated blows of others, wincing empathically, His own battle scars still visible.
He wipes each tear and drops it into a bottle bearing her name. As her eyes cautiously rise in search of an explanation, she understands this collection is not a nostalgic gesture but an elixir of grace. She collapses, at last, into his arms and buries her head in his chest — held, protected, adored, and chosen.