The prayer that doesn't end early

You meant every word. You just said them with your shoes on and one hand on the door. A quick prayer said standing up, half your mind already on the cigarette waiting for you. You weren't faithless. You were divided, and it had gone on so long it felt normal.

The cigarette stood in the doorway of every prayer, tapping its foot. Now there's no errand waiting after the amen. Nothing's running low. Nothing's counting down. Prayer stops being something you squeeze into a gap. It becomes a place you can sit down and stay.

God took the divided prayers too, every rushed one, and never held the clock against you. But you paid for it. Any conversation costs you when half of you is somewhere else. Your full attention can't be faked or bought. Now you've got all of it to give.

Give Him five minutes today with nothing scheduled behind them. Sit down. Say what's true about today, even if it's only this. I'm here, and I'm staying. Then stay one minute past where you'd have stood up. That extra minute is the whole thing. Your shoes can come off now.