I like to pray in the shower

"I now see my life, not as a slow shaping of achievement to fit my preconceived purposes, but as the gradual discovery of a purpose which I did not know." --Joann Field


"For awhile I looked outside to see what I could make the world give me, instead of looking inside to see what was there." --Bell Livingstone


Used to be, not too very long ago, that my morning shower was something to be rushed through, a mad scramble to scrub and shave with an infant in a bouncy seat in the bathroom with me and two curious toddlers running about, with only minutes to spare before the next certain catastrophe.


Now it usually goes something like this:


"YOU DO NOT NEED ME RIGHT NOW! I'M IN THE SHOWER. PRIVACY, PLEASE! I SWEAR THE NEXT PERSON WHO COMES IN HERE AND ISN'T BLEEDING IS LOSING SOMETHING FOR THE DAY!"

Allie's typical response, "Mommy, when are you going to be done?"

"GO!"


But this morning was slow and quiet, everyone settled and happy, doing their own thing. So I climbed in, turned the dial toward the red and stood, hands clasped, head tilted up so the water ran down my face and into my ears so it sounded hollow and loud. I express awe and give thanks for love and guidance, health and happiness, art and expression, family, peace. I ask for forgiveness and to be rid of selfishness, materialism, a blind eye, a cold exterior, pride, worry. And I pray for friends, those with torn marriages, and those lying scattered, tossed about in the wake of addiction, loss, depression. I pray for dreams, new babies and little boys trying out for baseball. My whole body tingles.


I hope tomorrow can begin just the same way.