God nudged me awake this morning at 4:00--as he does most every morning--so we might have a time of quiet, but penetrating, prayer. That I might talk with him--as author Dallas Willard describes prayer--"about the things we are doing together."

Now the truth of the matter is, as my closest family and friends understand, I have chronic insomnia. My spirit loves the intimacy of late night when the world is still, the house is quiet, and he--my spirit--can focus on the things he loves, sans distraction.

Unfortunately, my spirit also loves the intimacy of the pre-dawn when the world is still, the house is quiet, and he--my spirit--can focus on the things he loves, sans distraction.

Now, in all candor, my body is not thrilled with the demands of my spirit. And the tension between my body's felt needs and my spirit's earnest desires can lead to some real internal, territorial disputes. I've noticed, too, an odd, inexplicable phenomena when this conflict and the resulting insomnia is at its worst: I find that my closest family and friends are quite contrary, even foul of mood.

And so, a short time ago, I came to terms with staying up late. And at some point I reframed the internal 4:00 AM wake-up call as God nudging me from my slumber for a time of unfettered conversation.

This morning, however, Lucy climbed out of bed with me. Those of you who know my wife to be Kathy, don't be too quick to judge. Lucy's our dog. These days, at nearly twelve--and having lost her sister, Gracie, just over a year ago--she yearns for companionship as never before.

As I prepared for quietude and prayer, Lucy grew more and more insistent that this hour was hers.

She wanted outside. Until she discovered it was raining. She insisted I accompany her. She wanted back in. She wanted a treat. She wanted water. She wanted her belly rubbed. She wanted a toy. She wanted to go back outside. To sit in the rain.

High-pitched, somewhat annoying, squeals accompanied each of Lucy's petitions.

I just wanted to pray. Nothing else is worth my rising at 4:00 in the morning.

I was on the floor, massaging dry her rain-soaked belly with a towel, laughing at my own annoyance, when to my surprise I heard myself answering Lucy's squeals by asking... 

"Are you my prayer this morning, Lucy? Are you my prayer?"

Jesus' brother James encouraged "bookish" Christ followers to strike a balance between their haughty pleasure of learning and their humble obligation of serving widows and orphans--that is, those who can offer nothing in return (James 1:22-27).

And, I suppose the same could be said of contemplatives. There are occasions of quietude and prayer; but sometimes, we are called to get on our knees and--though it might not be appropriate to rub another's belly--wash some feet.

Amen.

How might the many distractions of life frustrate you? Can you offer an example? What would it look like if you viewed the distractions not as interruptions but as invitations?    

How might you serve with a disposition of prayer?

Who will be your prayer today?