Living Proof Of Prayer

Every night, I find myself doing the same thing—folding my hands, bowing my head, whispering prayers into the silence. Sometimes they feel strong, full of faith and hope. Other times, they feel fragile, more like desperate cries than polished words. And still, I pray. I pray for my husband as he battles seizures that wrack his body and depression that weighs down his spirit. I pray for healing, for peace, for strength, for joy to return to his eyes. I pray for myself too—that God would steady me when I feel like I cannot carry this anymore.

There are nights when I wonder, Is He hearing me? Does my voice really reach heaven? Do my prayers matter? The silence of waiting can feel long. The answers don’t always come when or how I want them. But then, I remember something powerful: I am living proof that prayer matters.

I look at my own life and see that I am only here because someone prayed. I think of my parents, now gone, who prayed over me as a child. I think of my mama’s whispered pleas and my daddy’s earnest petitions that God would guide me, protect me, and lead me. I think of times in my life when I didn’t even realize I was being carried—not by my own strength, but by the prayers of those who loved me. I am standing today because somebody prayed.

That reminder gives me courage to keep praying. Because maybe, right now, my husband cannot find the words for himself. Maybe the weight of his struggle makes prayer feel impossible. But I can stand in the gap. I can be the one at his bedside, lifting him to the Father, believing that God hears every word, every cry, every groan too deep for language. And if my life is living proof that prayer changes things, then I will keep praying in faith that his life will bear that proof too.

Prayer is not wasted breath. It is not a shot in the dark. It is not wishful thinking. Prayer is partnership with the God who holds the universe, the God who bends low to listen, the God who delights in being near His children. Prayer is where I take all that I cannot carry and lay it before the One who can.

Some days, it feels like all I can do is pray. But what a powerful all that is. Because prayer invites heaven to touch earth. Prayer moves mountains unseen. Prayer reaches places my hands cannot go. Prayer reminds me that while I am limited, my God is limitless.

So I will keep bowing my head. I will keep folding my hands. I will keep whispering the name of Jesus over my husband, over our marriage, over my weary soul. I will keep believing that prayer matters, because I have already seen its fruit in my own story.

And maybe one day, Tim will be able to look back and say the same words: “I’m only right where I am today because somebody prayed.”

Until then, I will keep praying.