It’s been a while since I’ve gone to the altar for prayer.

I could give all the backstory, justify all the reasons, and make up all the excuses. But, the fact remains — my prayer life, lately, has become purely private. That is, until this past week when a crisis came upon my family. I’m trembling even as I write this, tears forming despite my wildest efforts to suppress them, push them down until my face is tidy and tells the world that I’m fine, just fine.

If I could tell you the story, I would. But, truth is, it doesn’t take much imagination to meet me in the valley of my sorrow, because I know you have your own valleys of sorrow.

Valleys where you’ve had to vacate the place you call home.

Valleys where death has touched and taken life from your loved ones.

Valleys where violence has shattered any sense of safety you felt.

Valleys where struggle is the only sight your eyes have seen.

Valleys where loved ones have left and never returned.

Valleys where sickness has seeped into your story.

Valleys where hope is far from the horizon.

Valleys where your world has broken because . . . fill-in-the-blank.

Just a few Sundays ago, I walked into church, my heart pounding against the cage of my chest. I spread a thin smile across my face like a veil, a curtain drawn to hide the horrors held within my heart. But the Holy Spirit sees the hurt and hopelessness we try to hide — and the heart of the Father is moved when we are found fragile, fragmented, and frozen in fear.

I wanted to hide my hurt, but God wanted to hear my heart. And, so, God did what only God can do. God tapped on my shoulder, whispered in my ear, put a flame beneath my feet, and moved me to make that first step towards the altar. The invitation to step forward for prayer was like a call I couldn’t ignore, like God’s finger on my chest, pointing precisely to the place where fear and pain swelled, where trauma and tears swirled into a new color, a new kind of grief.

I walked up and received prayer. You know — that hands-laid, tears-flowing, snot-dripping, Spirit-filled, truth-whispered-in-your-ear kind of prayer. I fought the instinct to carry my cares all by my lonesome. I chose, instead, to cast my cares upon the Lord and into caring community.

I don’t know how you feel about prayer or what you believe about the practice of it. I don’t know if you pray in the pages of your journal or when, if ever, you’ve last gone to the altar for prayer. I don’t know about the horrors you’re holding inside your heart, or the lies you are fighting as you navigate life, loss (all little and large), and love. Perhaps hope is exhausted and patience has waned. Maybe the cares you cradle are too complicated to categorize. Maybe the situation is so uncertain that it’s unutterable, it’s all too much to make it make sense to anyone else, much less to yourself.

While there’s a lot I don’t know about your story, this one thing I do know: The altar can be a place to access the truth that we cannot, at times, ourselves recall. Through prayer, we can be reminded that nothing is unfathomable for the Father. By pouring out our hearts and having our hearts poured into, we can be reminded that no person is too far gone, no need is too great, no wound is too deep, and no fear is too strong for the love of God.

Come trembling, come tired. Come filled with fears, come with longing and tears. Come with feeble faith, come broken and unsure. Come with a well of words, come speechless. Come doubting and in denial. Come angry and defeated. Come crying, come crawling.

Let God point precisely to the place where fear and pain swell. I’ll be here, hand in God’s, hearing your heart’s every ache, and praying with and for you in the comments.

Come. 

Listen to Rachel’s devotion here or wherever you stream podcasts & share with a friend.