My Stubborn Heart

by Becky Wade

She prayed that God wouldn’t forget about him, this son of hers, who’d gained and lost the world in just a third of his lifetime.

Funny thing about prayers. God hears them. But you just never know if, when, or how He’s going to answer them.

“Why in the world haven’t you married anyone yet?” “Well . . .” I’m holding out for Prince Harry. I have cooties, so that makes it hard. Shark attack killed the last prospect.

Let it be said that God is kind.

I am weary, God. Give me your rest. It was a breath prayer. She didn’t have the emotional strength to form a long, coherent prayer at the moment. So she simply breathed in, held her breath for a few beats, and then whispered, “I am weary, God. Give me your rest,” as she breathed out. Breathe in. Silent tears. Breathe out. I am weary, God. Give me your rest.

Never underestimate the effect of outrageous flattery on the ego. Because the effect of it, really, cannot be overstated.

What bugged her the most was that any person with two brain cells knew that taking out the trash was a man’s job. So her failure at finding a husband had, among other things, relegated her to a life of trash handling.

He pushed away from his truck and approached. “Here.” He took the Hefty bag from her. “Let me.” And exactly as God must have intended for man to do from the beginning of time, he strode into the fog and took out the trash. She could have fainted at the romance of it.

She tried to look cool about it, calm. But she could already feel her blood starting to rush. She didn’t want to blow this chance with him, to shut him down accidentally, to misrepresent God.

It scared her to think that God had intentionally placed her on a collision course with catastrophe.

After all the wild thoughts and wilder feelings that had possessed her this afternoon and evening, he’d called and stated the situation very simply in under a minute.