Chillin on the edge of a cliff in my jorts. #northshore
Lately I’ve been hearing a lot of pastors challenging our tendency to pray for protection. They talk about how prayers for safety are small prayers, and we need to be praying big. “Don’t pray to be safe. Pray to be dangerous.” Good stuff.
But the more I think about it, the more I wonder if any of those prayer theologians are moms. I especially wonder if they are moms of boys.
For a while I took their advice. I resisted the urge to pray for safety. I prayed for my boys to be dangerous. I prayed for them to change the world. And then it occurred to me. In order for my boys to change the world, they’re going to have to stay alive.
Yes, I believe prayer fills hearts with God-breathed life. I also believe prayer keeps those beating hearts alive. I’d be a fool not to use it both ways.
We hand our boys keys to cars and send them off on mission trips and camping trips. If we’re savvy we stalk their adventures on Instagram while counting the hours until we can expect to hear the garage door opening. Sure, we pray our boys will slay some giants while they’re out. But we also pray they come back home.
I probably didn’t know the full power of prayer until my boys began turning into men. Independence for them led to dependence for me. God, please keep them safe.
I pray it defiantly now. I say it out loud to God. Yes, God. I ask you to protect them. I ask you to keep them safe. To keep them free from evil, and out of harm’s way. I ask you to bring them safely home.