How Does Prayer Work?

By Peter Bowden

The girl lay on her side with one hand curled beneath her cheek, the other fidgeting with the hem of the blanket. The room was dark except for the hallway light slipping in like a ribbon under the door. She wasn’t sure how prayer worked, only that Mama once said it didn’t need to be out loud. So she closed her eyes and quietly thought: please let tomorrow come gently.

Outside, wind moved through the trees like a sigh, and the house creaked as if settling its bones for sleep. She thought of her brother’s laugh, Daddy’s coat hanging by the door, and the sound of pots in the kitchen when Mama made morning buttered toast. She didn’t ask for ponies or toys or to be grown up. Just for the people she loved to still be there. Still laughing. Still warm.

The prayer didn’t end, not really. It just drifted, like a paper boat down a stream. Her breath slowed, her fingers uncurled. She imagined the morning sunlight coming through the curtains, slow and gold. Maybe that was enough. Maybe that was how God listened—through the silence between heartbeats, and the hush just before sleep.

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