Dear God, If You're Listening

I don't pray the way I was taught— on my knees, hands folded, words memorized like a password to heaven. I pray the way I breathe: without deciding to, usually when something hurts. Jesus, if you walked today you'd be tired too— tired of people using your name to lock doors you spent your whole life opening. I think God's love is not the sermon. It's the casserole brought to the door when words fail. The stranger who stops. The teacher who notices. The friend who says nothing and sits in the silence with you. My praise is not a song. It's getting up when getting up is the hardest thing. It's forgiving someone who hasn't asked. It's looking at this broken, burning, beautiful world and saying: I still believe something made this on purpose. Dear God, if you're listening: I don't need miracles. Just keep the ordinary going— the bread, the breath, the people who show up when the world falls apart and call it faith.