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These past few weeks didn’t go the way I planned. I was supposed to be on a two-week vacation from work—an annual shutdown, just time to breathe. But life, as it often does, had other ideas.
It started with a text from my son’s fiancée. A simple request: “Can you send me Sonia’s location?” At first, it seemed like nothing. But within the hour, my wife came hobbling in—no car, soaked, and shaken. She had flipped our vehicle after hitting water on a stretch of road outside Spicard. And our grandson? He was in the backseat.
By the grace of God, he was fine. Not a scratch. My wife, though—bruised ribs, pain in every step, and no way to lift anything heavier than a coffee cup. That left me. Suddenly I was the driver, the nurse, the barnhand. And the stress? It hit me like a wave.
Now, I’ve always tried to be a man of faith. But let me tell you something: when you’re knee-deep in mud, hauling five-gallon buckets for pigs, trying to figure out insurance for a totaled car while holding your household together—it shakes you. It doesn’t just test your stamina; it tests your theology.
And for me, it tested my prayer life.
Old Habits, Old Lies
In the middle of that chaos, old thoughts started bubbling up. The kind I thought I’d buried years ago. Thoughts like, “You’re not praying right,” or “God won’t hear you if you’re not on your knees,” or “You didn’t say ‘in Jesus’ name’—so that doesn’t count.”
Intellectually, I knew better. But stress doesn’t leave room for clean theology. It opens the door to old insecurities, the ones that whisper, “You’re not enough,” especially when you’re doing everything wrong by the book.
I found myself wrestling with God—not because I didn’t believe in Him, but because I wasn’t sure if He was still listening.
Then Came Peter
It was Matthew 14 that brought me back. The story where Peter sees Jesus walking on water and asks, “Lord, if it be thou, bid me come unto thee.” Jesus says, “Come.” And Peter does. He walks on water—until the wind distracts him, fear takes over, and he starts to sink.
That’s when he cries, “Lord, save me!”
And Jesus doesn’t hesitate. No waiting. No checklist. He stretches out His hand and pulls Peter back up.
That was me. I started off that first Monday with strong faith—“God’s got this.” But by Friday, I was sinking. Bills, pain, pigs, broken routines, legal hoops—I couldn’t keep up. My prayers started sounding less like Scripture and more like desperation.
But that moment with Peter? It reminded me that God doesn’t require perfect posture. He doesn’t sit back waiting for me to say magic words. He responds to surrendered hearts.
What Prayer Really Is
Through all the mud and mess, I’ve relearned something that should have never been complicated in the first place: prayer isn’t a performance. It’s not a formula. It’s relationship.
God doesn’t reject me because I didn’t say the Lord’s Prayer in the right order. He doesn’t withhold love because I forgot to say “in Jesus’ name.” If He did, I’d have no hope.
He hears the simple, broken, honest cries—“Lord, save me!”—just as much, if not more, than our polished rehearsals.
Prayer isn’t about getting every word right. It’s about getting your heart right.
The Pig Pen Was My Closet
I didn’t have a private room. My “prayer closet” was a mud crater next to a pig trough. And still—God met me there. While trying not to curse the mud seeping into my boots, I poured out my heart.
I asked for strength. I asked for wisdom. I asked for provision. And even though my words stumbled and my heart felt torn, I know He heard every syllable.
Because I’m His.
That’s what I cling to. Not my eloquence. Not my track record. Just Jesus.
If You’re Drowning Too…
Maybe you’re where I was—barely holding it together. Maybe your stress looks different, but the weight feels the same. Maybe your prayers are tangled in guilt and “should’ve saids.” Let me tell you something I had to relearn the hard way:
God hears you.
You don’t need a ritual. You don’t need to be eloquent. You just need to be real. You need to trust that the same Savior who reached for Peter in the storm is reaching for you now.
So cry out, even if it’s messy. Even if it’s not in the “right” order. Even if all you can say is “Help.”
Because He’s listening. And He saves.
Every single time.
