Tuesday, May 1st, 1917 – His Will
May’s pen rose gently from the journal’s page to let the ink dry. She squinted, her chestnut-brown eyes studying the words she had written. She wasn’t going to take this lightly; the words had to be perfect. The book now being passed to her to fill its pages, May felt the duty of continuing in the spirit of her grandfather’s record of prayers.
She had started just as she was told: the date first, then her request. “Your prayer ought to be focused, like a bullet,” her grandfather used to say. “Stop this nonsense of praying for everything and anything just because you think you should. Pray what’s on your heart. That’s what God’s gonna hear best anyway.”
“Grandpa!” May remembered scolding him when she was younger. “I can’t leave other people out just to pray for what I want.”
He just smiled wisely and winked. “Then they’re on your heart, aren’t they? If you can’t leave them out of your prayers, that’s when you know you care. Remember that. You’ll know how much you love by how much you pray. But don’t pray for what you don’t care about just to avoid feeling guilty. And if you do feel guilty, just care more so you can pray more. Be focused!”
With the words she had written still imprinted in her mind, she turned to gaze out her window at the cool spring scenery that made up the setting of her 21st birthday. The Maine countryside was barely beginning to blush with the buds of new birth. The air held that comforting scent of day-old rain, that aura she loved about living in the country. Read more…