Prayer of the Day

Lord, You know where I work. You've seen the Sunday-night dread, the knot in my stomach in the parking lot, the deep breath I take before I badge in. I'm not coming to You with a polished prayer today. I'm coming tired.

You know the people who make it hard — the one who takes credit, the one who cuts others down, the one whose moods set the weather for the whole floor. I won't pretend I feel warmly toward them. But You told me to pray for them, so here it is: bless them, Lord. Work on whatever is broken in them that spills out onto the rest of us. And work on me too — because I know I am somebody else's difficult coworker some days.

Protect my heart in that building. Don't let the cynicism in the break room seep into me. Don't let me start giving less than my best just because the place deserves less. Keep my work honest and my mouth clean when the gossip comes around — let me be the one safe person to talk to, not another mouth in the mill.

Give me one ally there, Lord. Just one helps so much.

And give me wisdom about the bigger question — the one I turn over on the drive home: Do I stay, or do I go? If You want me here — as salt, as light, as the steady one in an unsteady place — then give me strength for one day at a time, and stamina for the long haul. But if this season is over, open another door and give me the courage to walk through it. Staying miserable is not the same as being faithful.

Until then, be my peace between nine and five. Meet me at my desk, on the floor, behind the counter. Eight hours is a long time, Lord — but not one minute of it is outside Your reach.

In Jesus' name, Amen.

Lord, it's late, and I'm still awake.

I've counted, breathed, flipped the pillow to the cool side. Sleep isn't coming, and lying here fighting for it is only pushing it further away. So instead of fighting, I'm going to talk to You.

You know why I'm awake. Maybe it's the coffee. Maybe it's the worry. Maybe it's nothing I can name — just a body that won't power down and a mind still pacing the halls.

Whatever it is, I'm through pretending I can fix it by trying harder. Sleep is a gift, not a wage. I can't earn it. I can only receive it. So I open my hands here in the dark.

While I wait, I'll use the quiet. Thank You for this bed. Someone tonight has none. Thank You for this roof, this blanket, this breath. Thank You that the night is not empty — You are in it, wide awake, keeping watch over everyone I love.

I pray for the others awake right now: the new parents, the night-shift workers, the worriers like me, the ones in hospital beds watching the same slow clock. Be near to every one of them.

If sleep comes, thank You — I'll take it gladly. If it doesn't, then stay with me through these strange small hours, and give me grace for tomorrow anyway. You've stretched thin nights over thin days before and somehow made them hold.

Either way, I am not alone in this dark room. That is enough to rest on, even with my eyes open.

In Jesus' name, Amen.