The Prayer Porch

Tag: prayer

  • Remembering

    Today marks twenty-five years since the towers fell.

    Twenty-five years since a field in Pennsylvania became sacred ground. Twenty-five years since the Pentagon burned and a nation stood still and watched smoke rise against a September sky that had, until that morning, been so unbearably blue.

    I remember where I was. Most of us who were old enough do. That kind of memory doesn’t fade the way ordinary days fade. It burns itself into the soul and stays there, sharp and clear, long after other things blur.

    A quarter century is a long time. Long enough for babies born that day to have children of their own. Long enough for the raw wound to become a scar. But scars still tell a story. They still mean something happened here.

    I think about the firefighters who ran up the stairs while everyone else ran down. I think about the passengers on Flight 93 who said “let’s roll” and gave their lives so that others might live. I think about the mothers and fathers who kissed their children goodbye that morning with no idea it would be the last time. Nearly three thousand souls. Nearly three thousand families whose lives split into before and after.

    Scripture doesn’t shy away from grief like this. The Psalms are full of it. “Out of the depths I cry to you, Lord” (Psalm 130:1). The people of God have always known what it is to watch the ground give way beneath them, to ask where God was when the smoke was rising and the sirens wouldn’t stop.

    And here is what I have come to believe, twenty-five years on. God was there. Not distant, not absent, but present in the firefighter who went back for one more person. Present in the strangers who carried each other down eighty flights of stairs. Present in the churches that filled that week with people who didn’t know what else to do but pray. Present in the small, quiet acts of love that always rise up in the middle of the worst days, like light finding a way through rubble.

    “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit” (Psalm 34:18). That verse was true on September 11, 2001, and it is still true today, for whatever ground has given way beneath you this year.

    Remembering isn’t about staying in the wound. It’s about honoring what was lost while trusting that God is still writing the story, still present in the ashes, still able to bring beauty from what was broken. That’s not a shallow hope. It’s the same hope that held people together in the days after, and it’s the hope we’re invited to carry now, for this world and for whatever comes.

    So today, I remember. I pray for the families who still carry an empty chair at the table. I give thanks for the courage that met that day. And I hold on to the promise that grief and hope can live in the same heart, because they always have, for as long as God’s people have walked through hard things and found Him faithful on the other side.

    A Porch Prayer

    Lord, we remember today. We hold the names and the faces and the empty places at so many tables. Be close to the brokenhearted, just as You promised. Comfort the families still living with this loss every single day, not just today. Give courage to those who run toward danger to save others, then and now. And help us carry both grief and hope in the same heart, trusting that You are present even in the ashes, and that You are still writing beauty into broken places. Amen.

    Where were you twenty-five years ago today? I’d love to hear your story in the comments, and how you’re holding this anniversary in your heart.

  • While We Wait

    There is a particular kind of quiet that settles in when we are waiting.

    Not the peaceful quiet of a finished thing. Not the easy stillness of a Sunday morning with nowhere to be. This is a different kind of quiet. The kind that hums with uncertainty, with unanswered prayers, with doors not yet opened and words not yet spoken.

    Most of us know this quiet well.

    We wait for news that has not come. We wait for healing that is taking longer than we hoped. We wait for clarity in a season that still feels murky. We wait for the next chapter to begin while the current one seems to be holding its breath.

    And in that waiting, if we are honest, we can start to wonder.

    Is anyone listening? Is anything moving? Does any of this matter?

    Wait for the Lord. Be strong and take heart and wait for the Lord. — Psalm 27:14

    Notice what the psalmist does not say. He does not say wait and worry. He does not say wait and figure it out yourself. He does not say wait until you understand why.

    He says wait and be strong. Take heart.

    As if the waiting itself is not passive at all. As if waiting on God is one of the most active, courageous things a person can do. As if showing up every morning and choosing to trust what you cannot yet see requires a kind of quiet bravery that the world rarely notices but heaven always does.

    You are not forgotten in your waiting.

    The silence is not absence. The stillness is not indifference. God is not slow. He is purposeful and what He is building in the in-between, in the not yet, in the space between the prayer and the answer. That work is real, even when you cannot see it.

    So today, friend, take heart. Hold on and keep showing up. Keep praying. Keep trusting that the one who called you to this season has not lost track of where you are.

    He is worth waiting for.

    A Porch Prayer

    Lord, teach us the grace of waiting well. When the quiet feels heavy and the answers feel far, remind us that You are near. Strengthen our hearts for the in-between. Let our waiting not be wasted but woven into something we cannot yet see. We choose to trust You today not because the path is clear, but because You are faithful. We wait for You. Amen.

    Friend, what are you waiting for today? You do not have to carry it alone. The porch is always open. 🌿

  • The Practice of Waiting with Purpose

    There is something quietly countercultural about committing to the same prayer, the same intention, nine days in a row.

    No instant answer or shortcut. Just showing up morning after morning, candle lit or coffee in hand and laying the same thing before God again.

    This is a novena.

    The word comes from the Latin novem – nine. Rooted in the nine days the disciples spent in the upper room between the Ascension and Pentecost, waiting, praying, not knowing exactly what was coming but trusting it would come. Nine days of holy uncertainty. Nine days of intentional presence.

    For centuries, Catholics have prayed novenas, the nine consecutive days of focused prayer for a specific intention. A feast day approaching on the calendar. The practice is ancient, simple, and surprisingly powerful.

    But here is what I want you to consider. Whatever your faith tradition, whatever your background:

    What would change in your life if you devoted nine days of focused, intentional thought and prayer to one thing?

    Not scattered worry or anxious scrolling with a half-hearted hoping.

    Nine days with one intention just showing up every single day.

    There is something about repetition that does something to us. It moves a thing from the surface of our minds down into the deeper places, the places where real transformation happens. Whether you are Catholic or Protestant, spiritual but not religious, or simply someone who believes that focused intention matters, the rhythm of a novena speaks to something universal in the human soul.

    We were made to practice and we were made to return. We were made to wait with purpose rather than drift with anxiety.

    This week I am in the middle of one myself. Nine days of intentions laid quietly before God, ending on a day that holds deep personal meaning. I cannot tell you yet what He will do with them. But I can tell you that the act of returning to the same prayer, day after day, has already done something in me.

    It has made me pay attention.

    And sometimes, that is the whole point.

    What intention have you been carrying that deserves nine days of your full, undivided focus?

    A Porch Prayer

    Lord, teach us to wait well. Teach us to return – not because we have not been heard, but because the practice of returning forms us into people who trust You more deeply. May our intentions find their rest in Your hands, and may these nine days of prayer open us to whatever You have been waiting to give us. Amen.

    Friend, have you ever prayed a novena or practiced intentional focused prayer over several days? We would love to hear about it in the comments. The porch is always open. 🌿

  • The Comfort of God Amidst Wildfire Smoke

    The Comfort of God Amidst Wildfire Smoke

    The sky looked strange today. Smoke from the Canadian wildfires drifted in and settled over everything, turning the sunlight hazy and the air a little heavy. It gave the whole day an eerie feeling, like the world had paused to hold its breath. I sat on the porch for a few minutes this morning and just noticed it. The quiet. The strange orange tint to the light. The way even the birds seemed less certain of themselves.

    I found myself thinking about Psalm 36:8, where it says we take refuge in the shadow of God’s wings. That image feels different to me today. Usually I picture shelter as something soft, something calm. But today the shelter feels necessary. The air outside is not safe to breathe deeply. The wildlife out there, the birds, the deer, the small creatures in the woods behind our house, have nowhere to go but through it. They cannot check an air quality app or close a window. They just endure it, the way creation has always had to endure the harder days alongside us.

    And yet Psalm 36 does not say we are sheltered instead of the storm. It says we are sheltered inside of it. God does not always remove the smoke. Sometimes He simply stays close while it passes through. That feels true for our own hard seasons too, the ones that cloud our heads and make the day feel strange and heavy, even when we cannot point to exactly why. We do not always get clear skies right away. But we are told, again and again, that we are held.

    I do not have this all figured out today. My head feels a little cloudy too, if I am honest. But I trust that the same love sheltering the wildlife outside my window is sheltering me, even in the haze.

    Lord, thank You for staying close on the hazy days, the ones where nothing feels quite clear. Shelter the wildlife who cannot escape today’s air, and shelter our hearts too, especially when we cannot see far ahead. Remind us that Your love covers us even in the smoke.

  • Let Go of Worry: Embrace Peace in God’s Care

    Let Go of Worry: Embrace Peace in God’s Care

    Nobody sees it on you.

    And that is exactly the thing about quiet worry. It does not announce itself. It does not show up dramatically or demand attention. Instead it settles in somewhere behind your eyes and under your ribs and becomes so familiar that you almost forget it was not always there.

    You wake up with it and go to bed with it. It follows you through grocery store lines and dinner conversations and Sunday morning worship with a smile that nobody questions. In fact you have grown so skilled at holding it that most people in your life have no idea how heavy it actually is.

    But God sees it. Every single ounce of it.

    Psalm 55:22 says this: “Cast your cares on the Lord and He will sustain you. He will never let the righteous be shaken.”

    Cast. Not manage. Not organize. Not carry more efficiently. Cast.

    That word demands action. It is the posture of someone who decides the weight belongs somewhere else. Not because the worry is not real and not because the circumstances are not hard. But because God made His shoulders for exactly this and He did not make yours for it.

    The truth is God never designed us to carry chronic worry. He did not build our minds and bodies for the constant hum of low grade fear that so many of us have accepted as just the way things are. The sleeplessness. The tight chest. The what ifs that follow us from room to room. The rehearsing of conversations and outcomes that have not even happened yet. He never intended any of that for us.

    Because putting it down feels irresponsible. Stopping the worry feels like an open invitation for something to catch us off guard. And somewhere along the way we started believing that anxiety was just the price of loving people and living in an uncertain world.

    So can we gently challenge that today?

    Here is what we know. Worry has never changed a single outcome. It has never stopped a hard thing from happening or pulled a good thing any closer. What worry has done instead is rob countless people of the present moment they deserved to fully live. People who missed the ordinary graces of a Tuesday because they were already living in a terrible version of next month that never actually came.

    Jesus knew this about us. In Matthew 6 He asked the most tender and disarming question: “Can any of you by worrying add a single hour to your life?” He was not scolding us. Rather He was inviting us to notice the futility of the thing we grip so tightly. Then He pointed us to the birds and the flowers and a Father who holds all of it without forgetting a single sparrow.

    And He has not forgotten you either.

    The thing you quietly carry today – the relationship hanging in uncertainty, the health concern you have not told anyone about, the financial pressure you smile through, the future that feels like standing at the edge of something you cannot see – He knows it. He knew it before you opened your eyes this morning. And still He has not left it unattended.

    Here is what casting looks like in real life. It is not a one time event. We practice it daily. Sometimes moment by moment. Our hands open and release what we are gripping and every single time God meets us right there. Not always with answers. Not always with the resolution we wanted. But always with His presence. And ultimately His presence sustains us when the circumstances refuse to move as fast as we hoped.

    So today we come to the porch with open hands.

    We name the thing we have been quietly carrying. We do not dress it up or minimize it or pretend it weighs less than it does. Instead we bring it exactly as it is and lay it at the feet of the One who said come to me all who are weary and I will give you rest.

    And then we breathe.

    Because we were never meant to hold this weight forever. It always belonged to Him.

    Lord, You see the worry we carry in the quiet places. The weight nobody else knows about. The fear that grew so familiar we almost stopped noticing it. And yet You have seen it all along. Today we choose to cast. Our hands open wide. We release what we have been gripping and trust that You are not surprised by any of it. Your shoulders hold what ours were never built to carry. Sustain us today as only You can. Give us the grace to breathe and the courage to trust. Remind us again that You have never once dropped what we place in Your care. In Jesus name, Amen.

    What are you carrying today that you need to lay down? The porch is a safe place. We would love to hear from you in the comments.

  • When Power Chooses War

    When Power Chooses War

    There are moments in history when leaders make decisions that echo far beyond their own lifetime. Decisions that alter landscapes, fracture nations, and leave scars that will outlive them.

    The Christian tradition has long wrestled with this reality through what is known as the Just War Theory – a moral framework developed over centuries by theologians like Augustine and Aquinas. It was never meant to glorify war. It was meant to restrain it.

    At its heart, Just War Theory asks whether the use of force can ever be morally justified and if so, under what strict conditions.

    Traditionally, it considers questions such as:

    • Just cause – Is the war defensive or protecting the innocent?
    • Legitimate authority – Has the proper governing authority declared it?
    • Right intention – Is the goal peace and justice, not revenge or gain?
    • Last resort – Have all nonviolent options been exhausted?
    • Proportionality – Will the good achieved outweigh the harm caused?
    • Discrimination – Are civilians being protected from intentional harm?

    These are not abstract ideas. They are moral guardrails.

    When leaders choose force, Christians are called not merely to react emotionally, but to weigh decisions against these sober criteria. Just War Theory reminds us that even when war is argued as necessary, it is always tragic. It is always a concession to a fallen world.

    And that is why sorrow is appropriate.

    Scripture reminds us that God is not absent from global events.

    “I form the light and create darkness; I make peace and create calamity; I, the Lord, do all these things.” (Isaiah 45:7)

    That verse is not comfortable. It reminds us that even in upheaval, God is sovereign. Yet sovereignty does not mean indifference. The Lord who governs history also sees every life affected by it.

    “The lot is cast into the lap, but its every decision is from the Lord.” (Proverbs 16:33)

    Even political outcomes and national decisions do not escape His hand.

    And yet we are allowed to grieve.

    “Who has spoken and it came to pass, unless the Lord has commanded it? Is it not from the mouth of the Most High that good and bad come?” (Lamentations 3:37–38)

    There is mystery here. We cannot untangle all the threads of providence. We cannot see what future pages will reveal.

    “I know that You can do all things, and that no purpose of Yours can be thwarted.” (Job 42:2)

    Romans 9–11 reminds us that God’s redemptive story moves through nations, rulers, and even human rebellion. His mercy is not confined to one administration or one era. He is weaving something larger than we can perceive.

    Still, the weight remains.

    Just War Theory exists because war is never light. Even when defended as necessary, it carries unintended consequences. It reshapes families, economies, borders, and souls. It reverberates through generations.

    And so today, I do not write with outrage. I write with sadness.

    Sadness for civilians who will carry the cost.
    Sadness for soldiers who bear the burden.
    Sadness for a world that continues to reach for force.

    But also faith.

    Faith that God remains sovereign.
    Faith that His purposes cannot be thwarted.
    Faith that even human decisions – wise or unwise – do not escape His redemptive reach.

    We are not asked to control the course of nations. We are asked to pray, to discern, to lament, and to trust.

    The world feels fragile.

    But Christ still reigns.

    Christians are not powerless in moments like this. We respond first with prayer – not as a reflex, but as a discipline. We pray for leaders to seek wisdom. We pray for restraint where possible. We pray for protection over civilians and soldiers alike. We fast when our hearts are heavy. We give generously to those who suffer. We refuse to let outrage shape us more than Christ does. And we remember that peacemaking is not weakness – it is a calling.

    “Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called sons of God.” (Matthew 5:9)

    May we be counted among them – steady, prayerful, and anchored in a Kingdom that is not shaken by the rise and fall of nations.

  • Lent: A Season for Renewal and Spiritual Growth

    Lent: A Season for Renewal and Spiritual Growth

    Lent is often associated with ashes, fasting, and the quiet countdown toward Easter. But beneath the traditions lies something deeply simple and deeply human: a season of returning.

    For forty days, Christians around the world step into a rhythm of reflection. Some give something up. Some add something in. Some simply become more intentional about prayer. The outward practices may differ, but the invitation is the same – slow down and draw near to God.

    Lent is not about earning love. It is about remembering it.

    In a world that moves quickly, consumes constantly, and rarely pauses, Lent gently interrupts us. It asks us to notice what fills our days. What distracts us. What comforts us. What controls us. It invites us to release what clutters the heart and make space for what truly nourishes it.

    You do not have to be Catholic to step into that invitation. You do not have to observe every tradition to benefit from the posture. Lent is simply a sacred season that reminds us we are dust and deeply loved. That we are fragile and held. That we wander and are always welcomed home.

    The forty days mirror Jesus’ own time in the wilderness. A time of hunger. A time of testing. A time of clarity. Wilderness seasons are rarely comfortable, but they are often transformative. Lent gives us permission to sit quietly in that space without rushing toward resolution.

    On the porch, Lent feels less like obligation and more like an open chair.

    It is a season to ask:
    Where have I drifted?
    What needs to be surrendered?
    What would it look like to return?

    Because the heart of Lent is not sacrifice for its own sake. It is relationship. It is turning again toward the One who never turned away.

    And whether you observe it formally or simply lean into its spirit, the invitation remains: come back. Come closer. Make room.

    Lent does not have to be dramatic to be meaningful. It can be quiet. Personal. Intentional.

    For some, Lent may look like giving something up – not as punishment, but as space-making. Stepping away from excess noise, sugar, scrolling, or hurry in order to notice God more clearly.

    For others, Lent may look like adding something in – a daily Scripture reading, a short evening prayer, a weekly act of generosity, or simply five minutes of silence before the day begins.

    It might mean choosing patience where irritation has become normal.
    Offering forgiveness where resentment has lingered.
    Listening more than speaking.
    Serving quietly without recognition.

    Lent can look like simplifying your schedule.
    Turning off the news a little earlier.
    Sitting with a journal instead of a screen.
    Walking outside and praying honestly.

    It does not have to be rigid to be real.

    At its heart, Lent is about creating room – room for repentance, room for reflection, room for renewal. It is less about what we remove and more about who we move closer to.

    And whether your observance is structured or simple, formal or informal, the invitation remains the same:
    make space for God to gently reshape your heart.

    “Draw near to God, and He will draw near to you.”
    James 4:8

    This is the quiet promise at the heart of Lent – not that we must strive harder, but that when we take even a small step toward God, He meets us there.

  • Understanding Biblical Fasting: A Heartfelt Approach

    Understanding Biblical Fasting: A Heartfelt Approach

    Fasting can feel intimidating at first. Many of us associate it with rules, restriction, or spiritual pressure. Yet in Scripture, fasting is less about what we give up and more about what we make room for.

    Biblical fasting is an invitation to pause. To step back from what normally sustains or distracts us, and to lean more fully into God. It is a way of saying, “Lord, I want You more than anything else.”

    Throughout the Bible, people fasted when they were seeking clarity, repentance, strength, or direction. Esther called for a fast before stepping into an uncertain and courageous moment. David fasted in humility and surrender. The early church fasted together as they sought God’s guidance for what was next. Again and again, fasting was paired with prayer not to earn God’s favor, but to listen more closely.

    Jesus Himself reminds us that fasting is not meant to be performative. It is a quiet, inward posture of the heart. A practice rooted in humility, trust, and dependence. God is far more concerned with what fasting produces within us than with the outward act itself.

    The prophet Isaiah also reminds us that true fasting reshapes how we live. It softens our hearts, draws us toward compassion, and invites us to love others more faithfully. Fasting that pleases God leads to greater mercy, justice, and care for those around us.

    Fasting is not presented as an obligation, but as an offering. You may choose to fast from food, from noise, from busyness, social media or from anything that competes for your attention. What matters most is the intention to create space for God to speak and for our hearts to respond.

    As you consider prayer and fasting, remember this: God meets us gently. There is no comparison, no hierarchy, and no pressure to do it “perfectly.” There is only an open invitation to draw near.

    Lord,
    As we set aside our normal routines, we ask that You draw us closer to You.
    Quiet our hearts and clear our minds so we can truly hear Your voice.

    Teach us how to pray and how to fast in ways that honor You.
    Help us to release what distracts us and to hold more tightly to what matters most.

    We trust that You will meet us here and guide us each step of the way.
    Amen.

  • Finding Sacred Space in Sorrow

    Finding Sacred Space in Sorrow

    There are moments when the world feels especially tender.

    As a Jewish holiday begins, marked by remembrance, reflection, and sacred pause, we are also aware of heartbreaking violence in the world. These moments often arrive together. Holy days do not wait for the world to be at peace, and grief does not pause for the calendar. Both meet us where we are.

    On the Prayer Porch, we do not rush to explain or resolve. We simply sit. We notice. We breathe. We allow sorrow and sacredness to share the same space, trusting that God is present in both.

    Today, this porch is a place of quiet witness. A place to hold grief with tenderness and to honor sacred time with humility. A place where prayer does not try to fix the world, but offers it back to God with open hands.

    A Porch Prayer

    God of all people and all times,
    we come to You aware that the world is hurting.
    As some enter sacred days of remembrance and hope,
    others are waking to shock, grief, and fear.

    We do not have words that make sense of this.
    We only ask for Your nearness
    to those who mourn,
    to those who feel unsafe,
    and to those whose hearts feel heavy with questions.

    Teach us how to hold sorrow with tenderness
    and sacred time with humility.
    Meet us here, on the porch,
    where we pause, breathe, and remember
    that love still matters.

    Amen.

    In seasons where sacred time and sorrow meet, may we choose presence, compassion, and prayer over certainty.


    With love,
    Laura

  • God’s Promise: Life from the Valley of Dry Bones

    God’s Promise: Life from the Valley of Dry Bones

    There’s a moment in the book of Ezekiel that feels as honest as any human experience: the valley of dry bones. God leads Ezekiel into a place filled with what once had been alive – scattered remains, brittle and silent. Then God asks him, “Son of man, can these bones live?”

    Ezekiel answers the only way he can: “Lord, You alone know.”
    It’s a whisper of faith from someone staring at something that looks completely hopeless.

    We all have seasons like that.
    Times when our hearts feel tired and our purpose feels distant.
    Our prayers feel like they echo in an empty valley.

    There are days we wake up and feel hollowed out by stress, disappointment, grief, or sheer exhaustion. Moments where we feel spiritually thin – like the “us” we used to be has slipped away.

    And just like those dry bones, we wonder if anything can live again.

    But God speaks into that emptiness. He tells Ezekiel to prophesy to the bones, to call them to hear the word of the Lord. And as Ezekiel speaks, something miraculous happens:

    Bone begins to find bone.
    Sinews and flesh form.
    And finally, God breathes His Spirit – the holy breath – into them.
    And where death once lay, a living army rises.

    This story is more than an ancient vision; it’s a promise.

    🌬️ God still breathes life into the dry places.

    Into the places we’ve abandoned.
    Into the wounds we’ve tried to hide.
    Into the dreams we let go of because we were too tired to keep hoping.

    What does this look like in daily life?

    Sometimes it’s the moment you feel a spark of purpose after weeks of numbness.
    Sometimes it’s a gentle conviction “Call that person – try again – pray one more time.”
    Sometimes it’s the strength to get out of bed with a fresh sense of “maybe today.”
    Sometimes it’s tears that finally fall, clearing the ground for healing.
    Sometimes it’s a reminder that God isn’t finished with your story.

    Life returning doesn’t always come as a thunderclap.
    Most of the time, it comes as a quiet stirring.
    A small breath.
    A whisper that says, “I am with you.”

    As the world around us settles into rest, maybe we can sit on the porch with this gentle truth:

    God never leaves us in the valley.
    He meets us there.
    He speaks to the bones.
    And He breathes new life into what we thought was over.

    Lord, breathe life into the dry places within me.
    Restore what has grown weary.
    Reconnect what has been scattered.
    Revive what feels lost or forgotten.
    Help me trust that no valley is too empty for Your Spirit to fill.
    May Your breath bring strength, hope, and a fresh beginning today.
    Amen.