My grandson told me he does not believe any of it and asked me, kindly, to stop praying for him. I said I would stop telling him about it. That is not quite the same thing and he knows it.
My mother is in Enugu and I am in London and she has started saying "when you come" instead of "if you come". Flights are what they are. Pray for the money and, honestly, for the time off.
My mother no longer recognises me on most days. On Sunday she did, for about four minutes, and asked whether I had eaten. I have been living on those four minutes all week.
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My daughter Fiona has her surgery on Thursday. They have moved it twice and each time I have had to start being brave again from the beginning. I am not frightened of the operation. I am frightened of the waiting room. Please pray for the surgeon's hands and for my own heart to be quiet.
Fiona came through. Six hours, and they found less than they feared. I want to say something about the waiting room: I was not quiet in it. I was a wreck. But I was not alone in it, and that turned out to be the thing I had actually been asking for without knowing it. Fourteen people prayed on this. Ruth, you were right about the two nights before. Lydia, you set an alarm for a stranger.
My mother finished her treatment on Friday. I have been so focused on paying for it that I have not let myself be glad about it.
Fees are due on the 30th and I am short. He does not know. I would like to keep it that way.
My father and I have the same argument every time I go home and I have started finding reasons not to go home. I am 23 and I do not want to be 43 still doing this.
My father has six months, they think. We have about four conversations left in us if we use them well. Pray I do not waste them being right.
My wife carries the whole house while I sleep through the day. She has never once said it. Pray that I see it before she has to.