We’re a man down. My family, that is. Bubba went on to his eternal resting place. He passed into the great beyond last October, but it took until January before my husband was willing to let go. Men in blue shirts and brown belts collected the body and took it to be buried. Or, as near to buried as a twenty-five year old southern gentleman can be. When that southern gentleman is made of metal and held together by rust and engine oil so old and dirty it’s turned gummy.
Yep. We’re a man down. It’s all up to Big Red, now. Big Red, with the droopy headlights, saggy tires, one door that doesn’t work, and one door that only works part-time. He’s responsible for getting my husband to and from work each day, my son to piano each week, and us as a family to church twice on Sundays. Big Red is younger than Bubba but has been around the block a few more times. He looks like a first-time parent, but he drives like a great-grandma without her glasses. He kind of sounds like one, too. The great-grandma, that is.
So how does this lead me to prayer?
I would have thought it was obvious…
Okay, not really.
On Tuesday mornings I have the pleasure of rising before the rooster is even thinking of crowing. I drive my husband to work, drop him off, and bring Big Red back home with me so that I can take my son to piano later in the day.
I’ve always been a sunrise gal. There’s something special about the sunrise. It reminds me of God, his mercies, and the beauty of each new day. Alas, I don’t get to see the sunrise on Tuesdays. I’m back home before it – and that lazy rooster – are doing much of anything. And home is buried behind a bunch of trees and houses taller and more stately than ours. So no sunrise for me. Unless I watch it online, and let’s face it – calling that thing on my computer screen a sunrise is like calling a bag of sour cream and onion potato chips a baked potato with the works.
Now dawdling. Catch up with me now. Of course, my poor brain is addled with sleep deprivation, so it may be my fault if you don’t yet know where I’m going with this. Don’t ever try to have a serious conversation with me on Tuesday. Forming complete sentences is beyond me, and the fragments I do come up with are far from artistic.
But, I do have one thing going for me. On the drive home – after I’ve dropped my husband off – I get to pray. Sure, I can pray at other times. There’s something special, though, about that quiet time with just me, Big Red, and the hundreds of other unbalanced morning motorists. I turn the radio off, keep my eyes wide open, slip into defensive-driver mode, and talk to God.
The morning commute is twenty minutes in average traffic. I, however, have always been above average, so I usually manage to get in a good twenty-five minutes of one-on-one time with my Creator. Yes. It’s because I am more than passingly acquainted with every single red light between the work-site and our home.
But I love it.
I highly encourage the practice (of prayer, not sitting at red lights). Although, if you can find a way to pray without racing the rooster to the finish line, more power to you! ♥
Where do you carve out quality time to talk with God?