Groggily walking through the kitchen, I buttered three toasts, drizzled honey, and cored apples, quartering them.
|Photo Credit: Flickr user Amanda Slater, Creative Commons cc license|
Strapping one blonde-haired nephew into his blue high chair, I watched the two older boys climb into their chairs, cheerfully talking. Hot toast crumbled and steamed on small white saucers, while an oatmeal stewed warm in a bowl nearby.
"Okay, let's pray," I grinned at the boys as seven a.m. darkness still hid the deck outside.
"God, thank you for this morning, for breakfast, for _____, _____, and _____," I said, naming the boys while running my hand affectionately across the two necks closest to me.
"Thank you that you hear us when we call and that you make us stout and brave-hearted," I continued, remembering a verse from yesterday. "Amen."
Conversation resumed and boys hummed happy, chewing and moving in their seats as they ate.
My prayer's words suddenly hit me.
"That's not right. You make me bold and stout-hearted! Not stout. Thanks, God. You know what I mean," and I grinned at God in the dark.
Join me in sleepy prayers, sticky tables, and real life.
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