This is not specifically about prayer. 

But, it touched my heart so much.

I just have to share. 

One morning, my husband discovered Mara snuggled in bed next to him with a pen in hand, scribbling all over his Bible.

As he reached for the pen, Mara looked up and uttered the phrase, “Hi, Daddy.”

This would be a typical response for a three year old. But our daughter Mara is severely autistic and non-verbal.

So, when those words rolled off her tongue, my husband’s eyes welled with tears.

He found himself overwhelmed with emotions. He was ecstatic to hear his little girl’s voice. But this moment poked a hole in the dam walls he built years prior.

You know the walls I’m talking about.

The ones we build around our hearts.

No one gets in and nothing comes out.

The floodgates broke as he mourned the loss of the daughter he envisioned. He spoke of the pain a father feels when he doesn’t even know his own child. He complained to God how Mara lived in her own world and rarely acknowledged his presence.

God interrupted Greg’s lament and spoke these words to his heart:

I know your pain. I too am a Father and oftentimes, my children fail to acknowledge my presence.

Day-in-and-day-out, they repeat the same routine: Breakfast. Work. Dinner. Netflix. Bed.

They too live in their own little world. A world entrenched in hobbies, sports, materialism, binge-watching sitcoms, and Instagram surfing.

I try everything imaginable to get their attention. I send people into their lives to interrupt their routines. I answer big and small prayers in hopes they will know my heart.

I even went to the extreme of sending my Son, as an attempt to convey my love for them.

I don’t NEED them, but I desperately WANT them. They desperately NEED me, but don’t WANT me.

My greatest desire is for them to stop what they are doing and look into my eyes. I don’t have a list of rules for them to follow or a regimented agenda for their lives.

I just want a relationship.

And I’m not mad.

I don’t care how many times they have scribbled all over my story.

I’m the original author of their lives and I’m crafting a beautiful tale—if they would only hand me the pen.

Until then, I will patiently wait for my child to look up and utter the words that cause my heart to skip a beat…

“Hi, Daddy.”