Teach Me How to Pray Again

I haven't said grace since the funeral.
Lord, I'm out of practice.

Teach me how to pray again — (teach me)
I used to talk to You like breathing —
morning coffee, evening drive.
Then the hospital went quiet
and my amens didn't survive.
I'd kneel down by the window
with a heart full of "how dare You";
the ceiling felt like iron,
and my words fell short of true.

But last night by the kitchen table,
I caught myself mid-sigh
saying "Lord" — just "Lord" — and waiting.
Maybe that's a start. That's why:

Teach me how to pray again — (teach me)
I forgot the words somewhere in the pain.
Meet me at the kitchen table, Lord;
even angry counts as calling Your name.

Pray again. (teach me)
even angry counts as calling Your name.

Mama prayed through two wars and a wildfire,
said doubt is faith that's bleeding;
said God can take your honest fury
better than your fake believing.
So here's my crooked offering:
no thees, no thous, no shine —
just a man beside a window,
telling Heaven he's not fine.

And last night by the kitchen table,
I caught myself mid-sigh
saying "Lord" — just "Lord" — and waiting.
Maybe that's a start. That's why:

Teach me how to pray again — (teach me)
I forgot the words somewhere in the pain.
Meet me at the kitchen table, Lord;
even angry counts as calling Your name.

Truth is, the prayer was never the vocabulary.
It was the turning toward.
A sigh can be a psalm;
a fist unclenching, a hallelujah.
I'm turning, Lord. Slow as rust. But turning.

Mm. (just "Lord")
Mm. (and waiting)

(a sigh can be a psalm)

Teach me how to pray again — (teach me)
I forgot the words somewhere in the pain.
Meet me at the kitchen table, Lord;
even angry counts as calling Your name.

Amen. Or something like it.
We'll work on the ending together.

(teach me how to pray again)