My prayer is like a gust of wind that wants to uproot deck chairs and rattle windows. It carries with it the dusty gravel of the earth that gets into everything, lays a sift of angel-dust on all exposed surfaces: car hoods, walk-way stones, benches, railings. You may sense I was there. Irritatingly. But like the wind, I'm here and gone.

What remains is only a reminder of the ground under my feet having had a meeting with the wind, the air above my feet.

The air I mostly don't feel it that much, other than "it's hot," "it's cold," "it's fresh." General wind helps circulate the tired air of my soul. Focused wind blows up the air in my tires, increasing the pressure to perfect balance for when the rubber hits the road. Like prayer does.

Before taking to the road, a little prayer helps. It protects. It invites the angels. It gives nod to dependence on the invisible.

Like air, we can see through it. Only, my prayer believes there are many angels just waiting to be given something to do. They all hang out, chattering with each other about human stories: "Did you see this human do this..." 

Until I transfer my doubt to the wind in a hearkened call: "Hey, I can use some help now!"

The currency is invisible. Something like wishes, thoughts, concerns, desires, and -- oh yeah -- prayers. The prayers I say are mostly silent. Pretty lame when it comes to getting one's attention. These angels on the street corner of our lives, keep gabbing away, engrossed in angel chatter.

For me to break through the white noise, my human spirit expresses a concise command. The angels love the money of human dreams, aspirations and goals. Unfortunately, they live on the oxygen of persistence, the voice of sincerity, the invisible songs sung by my invisible lungs.

I like to hear of angel stories. I bet the angels like to hear of human stories. May we meet in prayer, like the wind above the beach, dancing along the seashore bathed in sunlight, shimmering up the sand to meet the white tops of rushing waves.

This is my prayer this morning: Mobilize the angels in the wind to touch the minds of the people on this earth, with gusts from heaven that toss their hair just in front of their eyes,  and that moves their hand to tuck it back.

From whence it comes, nobody knows.


06.08.26 9:15 AM