Last Sunday, my husband and I were asked to pray over marriages in our congregation.
The idea was perplexing.
Me? The closet lunatic that I am? The woman who sometimes tears up mid-sip of her tea feeling like her plight in the world is to live like Jeremiah, lamenting societal woes, and yet still brushing up on the mechanics of the air fryer just so she can seem to fit in?
You want me to pray? For somebody else’s marriage?
Like I said, perplexed.
If anyone were to receive a medal in this world, it would be my husband. Matt’s not perfect. He’ll claim as such…depending on what day it is. But the man is the epitome of patience and intestinal fortitude, two things with which a person needs to be equipped to deal with a thirty-something struggling writer and stay-at-home mom who claims her oven is trying to break up with her.
It is not easy being Matt Clay.
But he does it anyways, with great finesse, and I started to lean into the idea of praying for other people’s marriages because at least he would be standing there with me, watering down my extreme flavor of crazy so that God would stand in our midsts and hear our prayers.
But we all know that’s not how this works.
Here I am, raw and vulnerable, imperfect and rough-edged servant. I want to add “humble” to that list. I think I’d willingly die for that word to be written on my tombstone. But God and I both know we still have work to do to get me there.
So instead, I’ll say this: I have a broken heart that always needs mending. And I’m not too proud to announce that only Jesus can do that work. So maybe that’s why I was asked to pray for others.
Because I know God hears those who know they need it most.
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