part of every moment

I look at joyful people

and wonder what their faces know.

There is a radiance upon them

I cannot manufacture,

something quiet,

something warm,

something that seems to say

they have found a place

where their souls can breathe.

I watch them.

They talk to Christ

as though He is already there.

Not only when the world collapses.

Not only when money is scarce.

Not only when the future becomes frightening.

They talk to Him

about everything.

A thought comes,

they bring it to Christ.

A decision comes,

they bring it to Christ.

A disappointment comes,

they bring it to Christ.

Something beautiful happens,

they bring it to Christ.

They seem to have learned

what I have not yet learned:

to make Christ part

of every moment.

For me, worry comes naturally.

I do not have to practice it.

My mind wakes up

and begins calculating.

What if this happens?

What if that fails?

What will I do?

How will I survive?

Why is this happening to me?

And before I realize it,

I am already worrying.

Complaining comes just as easily.

I can complain

without making an appointment.

I can rehearse my disappointments

without opening the Bible.

I can carry a conversation

with my fears

for hours

without once turning

to Christ.

Worry is my autopilot.

Complaint is my reflex.

Fear knows my address.

But prayer?

Talking to Christ?

That often feels like work.

I wish it were natural.

I wish my first response

to every thought

were Christ.

I wish my heart

instinctively turned toward Him

the way my mind instinctively

turns toward worry.

I look at those joyful people

and I realize,

perhaps their radiance

is not because life

has been kinder to them.

Perhaps they have simply

learned where to take

the weight of life.

Perhaps they have practiced

talking to Christ

until conversation with Him

became as natural

as breathing.

They have made Him

their first conversation

instead of their last resort.

And I confess, Christ:

I have often made worry

my companion

when You were standing beside me.

I have told my fears

what I should have told You.

I have complained

about burdens

You were willing to carry.

I have tried to solve

with anxious thoughts

what could have begun

with a simple,

“Christ, help me!”

Teach me this holy habit.

When worry rises,

teach me to speak to You.

When anger rises,

teach me to speak to You.

When money frightens me,

teach me to speak to You.

When tomorrow terrifies me,

teach me to speak to You.

When I receive good news,

teach me to speak to You.

When I receive bad news,

teach me to speak to You.

When I have no words,

teach me to sit with You.

When I want to complain,

teach me to turn

my complaint into conversation.

I do not want merely

to know about You.

I want to know

what it feels like

to walk through a day

talking with You.

Not occasionally.

Not ceremonially.

Not only when I am desperate.

But all the time.

In all my ways.

Until speaking to You

is no longer something

I have to remember to do.

Until my heart

turns toward You

before it turns toward fear.

Until prayer

is no longer an interruption

of my life,

but the way

I live my life.

And perhaps then

my face will begin to carry

that same divine radiance

I see upon joyful people.

Not because

I finally mastered happiness,

but because

I finally learned

where to take

my sorrow.

Not because

I stopped having problems,

but because

I stopped carrying them alone.

Christ,

teach me to talk to You.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Until,

in every thought,

in every decision,

in every burden,

in every joy,

my soul instinctively whispers:

“Christ,

You are here.

Let us talk.”