As I child, I was taught to pray on my knees. I remember the ritual; with mommy, daddy, my grandparents, when it was time for prayer, we kneeled. Even as a congregation, at altar call, we knelt. I remember being fascinated at the obedience of the aged mothers of the church, prayer warriors before I even knew the term, slowly, gingerly, sometimes with assistance, taking to their knees. It was powerful.
At some point, I stopped. Not praying, but kneeling to do so. I don’t remember when or why, but it was enough to open a dialogue, sometimes an on-going conversation. I didn’t mean any harm, and I don’t believe any was done. I prayed. My prayers were heard. I chased God and saw His Glory.
It was enough, until it wasn’t. It wasn’t about changing my prayers, it was about changing me. I needed a humbling, to confess my brokenness, to act through it to seek the throne.
I've gone back to my knees...