Prayer is a house.
It is a spiritual house – Invisible to the human eye yet visible to the spiritual senses.
I remain in my mother’s house – I saw it.
Her house is a mansion of sorts – Magnificent and majestic. High walls. Ornate designs. Polished floors.
It is perfectly furnished and generously stocked – It is designed for me to stay.
When I walk about her house, I see big beautiful rooms that others are occupying – My siblings, my mother’s grandchildren, even Aunt Chantal.
Devils stand outside of my mother’s house and glare at it – They bare their teeth and expose themselves in rude and disgusting ways.
When I look out of a window – I see my own house.
It is a house that I created – Smaller…but just as nice.
I can see that my own house has many rooms, too – One room for each person I have prayed for.
These people remain in my little house, just as I remain in my mother’s – It feels like a strange chain of possessive love.
Then I return to my room and sit, then lay down on my soft bed – I close my eyes and truly rest with an overwhelming sense of security.