He sat across from me at my hiding place (the spot I go to rest while working). The table, admittedly, can accommodate more than one person, but I often times like to spread out and use it all, so when he asked if he could use it as well, the internal struggle began.
Quickly it was overcome.
He got his papers out, his pencils out, after setting his coffee down, and then came out the grade book. This white-haired, mustached teacher, or maybe professor, began diligently grading.
So naturally I had to change the music in my headphones to opera (don’t judge).
Business Communication class. Cover letters. Resumes.
The collar of his shirt was worn and discolored, the ring on his left hand once deeply engraved now dulled and scratched following every word written on every paper graded with the well sharpened pencil scribbling learned notes.
Having our papers graded is never fun. It’s a nervous business. We don’t want to fail, but we, in some way, want to learn (otherwise we wouldn’t have turned the paper in, in the first place).
This is how I feel about prayer.
I want to ask for help, but I’m scared of the reproving. Do you know what I mean?
When you know God is sufficient but you’re nervous of being answered? ‘Cause sometimes how could the answer be good? Yet we ask anyway. Trusting what’s to be done will be for our good.