Are They the Ones Who Pray All the Time?

For dinner that night, I’d roasted some potatoes and seared some spicy chicken (which my seven-year-old deemed way too hot). Before we ate, we grabbed hands as my husband prayed. He mentioned some news of the day in his prayer, things we wanted to remember before the Lord. A couple from church had suddenly lost an adult child that morning, which I’d learned through a heartbreaking phone call from the bereaved mother that afternoon. He prayed for them, his voice tightening, then breaking. It’s difficult to know how to pray for such a grievous loss.

After the “amen,” my teenager asked, “Now who are they again? The ones who lost their son?” I reminded him of their names—they’re relatively new to the church. I described their appearances and where they usually sit in the sanctuary, but he cut me off: “Oh, I know them. Are they the ones who pray all the time?”

“Yes, that’s them.” I nodded. “They pray with anyone and everyone at a moment’s notice.” I paused and looked at my husband—“Gosh, that’s how I’d like to be known. The one who prays all the time.”

Dinner continued with its usual rhythms of laughter, reminders to eat the vegetables, some Bible reading, prayer, a bit of Scripture memory. We cleared the table, and I washed the dishes before we headed outdoors for an evening walk. But my son’s description of the couple from church knocked around my brain all evening, for his comment was both accurate and telling.

The first Sunday I met this couple, we were preparing for my son’s spine surgery. I introduced myself to them in the hallway, and after we chatted a bit, they each grabbed one of my hands and prayed over me as people milled around us. They prayed for the impending surgery, the stress and exhaustion that would follow—loving me, someone they didn’t really know, through genuine intercession. I was warmed by their thoughtfulness, bolstered by their intentional prayer. They ooze with joy, and I was wonderfully caught off guard by their kindness.

That wasn’t an isolated incident. I’ve seen them do this for many others at church. They say they will pray for you, and then they pray for you. Right then and there. Theirs isn’t only a promise to pray later, though I know they will. Theirs is a promise to pray immediately. Goodness, I love that.

A couple of weeks ago, the wife came over for coffee and a chat. When she asked what the rest of my week looked like, I told her I’d be traveling to a speaking engagement. She immediately took my hand and prayed for my safety, for good recall, for certainty of God’s presence with me, and for the joy of the Lord to strengthen me. The words she prayed from Nehemiah 8:10 became the verse I would pray throughout my trip: “Lord, may Your joy strengthen me when I’m nervous, tired, discouraged.” Later, when I was on a plane heading home from my trip, I thought how her Scripture-infused prayer had not only encouraged me in the moment but had also carried me through my travel and work with courage and confidence in the Lord’s strength.

I can’t think of a Christian I know who doesn’t want to be a better prayer. If you’re like me, you harbor a tiny hope that time itself will transform you from scattered emergency prayer into devoted intercessor. But, as I’ve observed people like this couple from church consistently build their lives around the practice of prayer, I’m convinced that the only way to become devoted prayers is to devote ourselves to prayer. Immediately, in the moment as well as later, in private.

In his book on prayer, the late Tim Keller writes that “in the beginning the feeling of poverty and absence usually dominates, but the best guides for this phase urge us not to turn back but rather to endure and pray in a disciplined way until…we get through duty to delight.”[1] I’ve found that to be true in my own faltering efforts to talk to the Father. It starts in a scattered manner as I seek to put my thoughts in order. It feels like—dare I say it?—work. And it feels horribly wrong to call it such. But, I think Keller is right in his description. We feel our “poverty and absence” so much when we begin the work of setting aside our thoughts, to-do lists, and the running commentary that dictates how we spend our mental margin. To do nothing but sit before the Lord and order your thoughts, distilling everything down to one conversation with Him—it does feel like work at first. But then—it doesn’t. With regular time set aside devoted to nothing but prayer, you’ll notice that the conversation begins to flow from your heart with more focus and less like fractured requests ricocheting between the distractions in your mind. Prayer does become a delight. Not magically. Not merely with time. But with prayer. Prayer itself will lead you to become a devoted prayer.

Last week, my husband William helped set up some sound equipment for the memorial service for our friends’ son. After getting things in order and telling them goodbye, he walked to his car only to be flagged down by the man. He caught up with William, and—not surprisingly—asked if he could pray for William. And he did, right there in the parking lot, hand on William’s shoulder.

Paul exhorted believers to pray without ceasing (1 Thess. 5:17), and while that might feel impossible, it is this practice of intentional prayer which not only increases your ability to pray with focus but also brings your heart and mind back to the Lord over and over. Keller calls this “framing your day” in prayer.[2] Our praying friends from church can’t keep the name of Christ out of their mouths. A simple conversation with them will quickly turn to praise and delight in Jesus. That contagious joy of theirs is grown through their devotion to prayer. This, I think, is the sweet fruit of praying without ceasing: delighting in Jesus.

“Are they the ones who pray all the time?” my son asked at dinner that night. Undoubtedly. What a way to be known!

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[1] Timothy Keller, Prayer: Experiencing Awe and Intimacy with God (New York: Penguin Books, 2014), 25.

[2] Ibid., 245.