Sometimes prayer is simply the steadfastness of going about my day, doing what needs to be done—even—especially—that which I'd rather not do, or that which I feel unable, inadequate to do.
Sometimes prayer is simply one foot in front of the other. Sometimes arms raised in worshipful surrender actually looks like putting tired, aching "hands to the plough," not looking back.
My greatest, truest, most honest prayers aren't the interjectory conversations with God throughout the day. They are merely the faithful stewarding of what He's given me to do— who He's given me to love— today.
My intimacy with Him is measured not by the length or frequency or eloquence of my verbalized prayers, but in my active trust in the small moments of my everyday— in the quiet prayers of a life sought to be lived well.
Sometimes prayer is simply breathing in, breathing out, and doing—with moment by moment grace, integrity, and love —what's right in front of me.