Throughout his whole letter, James has been instructing his readers to live out their faith—and he’s been especially concerned with how they do that in suffering. Look back to the very first verse of this book. James writes to Jewish believers scattered around the world (“the twelve tribes in the Dispersion”). They’re dealing with persecution and long to one day experience the restoration God promised. But in the meantime, first century life has been hard, especially as followers of Christ.

They’re also navigating divisions within the Church, divisions between Jew and Gentile, rich and poor, honored and lowly. In the middle of all of this, James calls them to a life that reflects the kingdom and the character of God. We’ve seen the practical exhortations he’s given like avoiding partiality, watching their speech, submitting desires to God, and not putting their trust in plans or possessions. Then, we reach the end of his letter, which offers a fitting conclusion to all he’s instructed God’s people to do thus far: 1) pray and 2) help one another live out the truth.

Every night before my husband and I go to bed, we tiptoe into our kids’ rooms. We give them one last kiss, and then we straighten out their blankets and tuck the covers around them. And every single night since the twins were babies, I’ve put my hand on their backs, leaned in close, and listened for the sound of their breathing.

The habit started out of fear. For months after we brought our tiny newborns home from the hospital, I’d check on them incessantly. I’d pick them up, smell their sweet skin, and watch their chest rise and fall as they inhaled and exhaled. I needed to hold them just one more time before collapsing into my own bed for a few hours. My husband reassured me regularly, “They’re okay. They’re going to be okay,” and I knew—most likely—he was right. At the time, I didn’t think I was being an anxious parent, but looking back, I can see how fearful I really was—and often still am.

Growing up in a Christian home, we prayed regularly before meals. Sometimes the practice felt more meaningful, like before a Thanksgiving feast or on Easter Sunday as we focused on all we had been given. Other times, the mealtime prayer has been one I’ve struggled to utter: I didn’t really want to thank God for breakfast the morning my mom died. But most days, prayer before meals dwindles to a quick sentence said in a rush, one that grants permission to finally eat.

For many of us, saying grace can easily become trite and meaningless. But prayer before our meals is not just “something we do” as Christians. Instead, it’s a way to acknowledge our need and God’s provision—provision for our daily bread and provision as the Bread of Life.

I'm not really sure what to do, how to think, or what to say these days. But if nothing else, this season of chaos has pushed me to my knees. And that's a really good place to be.

I wrote down some things I've been praying for this week, and as long as my list has gotten, I know it's still not comprehensive. But I'm offering what I can in this post today.

Lord, have mercy.

I’ve been studying Psalm 120 over the last few months, and tried my hand and writing a prayer related to that psalm. I debated all day about posting it here, because I’ve never written any sort of prayer like this. It’s definitely a work in progress. But I thought I’d share it with you hoping you might find encouragement in praying through this passage of Scripture.