I sit, more often than not, on cold cement. It usually starts the same: head bowed, hands clasped, eyes shut lightly. I came to India with such a child-like faith. Shy and mild, too timid to really even lift my eyes. But here, in India, I’ve grown.
So I sit on cold cement. Eventually my clasped hands seperate, and come to rest palm up on my knees. I rock slightly, back and forth, and then tip my head back. I lift my face to the heavens.
I used to think that you weren’t praying right if your head wasn’t touching your knees. Or if your hands weren’t clasped just so. Or if your eyes weren’t shut the whole time. I’ve come to realize that doesn’t matter. My heart, my sincerity, that’s what matters.
Prayer is my solace now. I run to that place where I can communicate solely with the Lord. I relish the fact that I have a heavenly father that cares about me enough to listen to me, to respond, to show me everyday that He loves me through the love of my team and the children I serve.
I’ve learned that praying for people – strangers on the streets, ayahs, children – is something I can’t get enough of. I love praying for these people, even when it involves a crazy game of charades just to figure out what I should pray about.
Every new day is a gift and I thank God for the opportunities to serve the people around me with joy, love, and prayer.
