We prayed for three hours.
Three hours. That is worth repeating once more: three hours.
There is little that I do for three hours. In fact, there is currently a list— a very short list— of things I am capable of doing for three-hours blocks of time. Those things include:
Reading a good book.
Eating copious amounts of nachos.
Watching anything Bradley Cooper related.
That’s about it. It’s a pretty short list. Prayer has never made the cut.
Still, in spite of me, we prayed for three hours. This is all because I found myself stumbling into a small chapel on Saturday. It was instantly myself and four students of a ministry in Atlanta. I didn’t know a single one. Sprawled out across chairs in a small chapel, tucked in the back of a white brick building, I eyed the plain walls covered in Sharpie marker prayers.
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