It is sobering when your own writing convicts you. That happened the other day, when I was writing out a scene in my novella-in-progress:
Taking a deep breath, Marie ventured to ask, "Do you find comfort in prayer?"
Mr. Bowles looked down, his deep brown eyes looking seriously into Marie's. "Yes'm, I reckon I do. Comfort..." he looked away, "Peace...assurance..."
Marie let silence come between them. The thought of prayer scared her. Repelled her. Though in her heart she longed for the peace, she feigned defiance as she looked back at Mr. Bowles. "I find no comfort in prayer."
("Journey to Love," chapter Eight)
As I wrote it, the question slapped me: what is prayer to ME? I had to stop writing for a full minute to ponder my answer. I didn't have as good of an answer as I wanted to, because, truthfully, my prayer life has been sporadic. By God's grace, He is helping me in this area of my life, but I am far from where I should be and would appreciate your prayers in this area of my life.
What is prayer to you? (Don't answer publicly--just take a moment to do some heart-searching)