Do You Pray?

Do You Pray?

Do You Pray?**

Do you pray?

I do, every night,

with a heavy heart

falling into silence.

I pray for sleep,

not the fractured kind—

an hour here,

a blink there,

but the deep, gentle kind

where dreams bloom

and pain forgets my name.

I pray for these bones,

aching joints,

this body that fights me

like a house unraveling

from within.

I ask for healing—

not miracles,

just softening edges,

a quiet relief

that never comes.

And sometimes I wonder…

is God weary of my voice?

Does He sigh,

the same broken record,

the same plea

wrapped in new words?

Where are you, my God,

when nights stretch longer than hope,

when ache becomes a hymn

and the only choir

is my sorrow’s echo?

I still pray not for belief

you are listening,

but because silence

would feel louder if I stopped.

Amen to my long nights

of restless pain.