Dear Little Girl, You Don’t Have to Perform for God

There are mornings when the chair feels sacred.

Coffee gets cold beside you. Your Bible is open. The house is quiet. You write and pray and somehow an hour disappears because you have so much to say to God—and somehow, in the saying, you begin to hear Him too.

And then there are mornings like today.

The alarm has already gone off too many times. Your body is tired. The calendar is full. There are people who need you, work that isn't finished, texts waiting for answers, and approximately seventeen things running through your head before your feet even hit the floor.

And somewhere in the middle of all of that, you can accidentally turn time with God into one more thing you're failing at.

I didn't pray long enough.

I barely read my Bible.

I didn't journal enough.

I didn't have some profound revelation.

I was distracted the entire time.

And suddenly, even quiet time has become a performance metric.

Dear Little Girl, I don't think that's what He wants.

I don't think God is sitting across from you with a stopwatch.

I don't think He's counting pages.

I don't think He's measuring the length of your prayers or grading the depth of what you wrote in your journal.

I think He wants you.

That's it.

The you who sometimes has hours.

And the you who sometimes has five minutes.

The you who arrives peaceful and expectant.

And the you who drops into the chair already overwhelmed and says,

“Hi God. Crazy day. Love you. Come with me.”

Maybe that's the whole prayer.

And maybe that's enough.

Because relationship isn't measured by the length of the conversation.

Think about the people you love most. Some days you sit across the table and talk for hours. You tell stories. You cry. You laugh. You work through the hard things.

Other days it's a kiss on the cheek as someone runs out the door.

Love you. Be safe. Call me.

The brevity doesn't make the relationship less real.

Love was already there.

I think sometimes we forget that with God.

We can turn prayer into something we accomplish instead of Someone we walk with.

Jesus certainly withdrew to quiet places to pray. He showed us the importance of getting away, becoming still, and being with the Father.

But He didn't leave the Father behind when He left the quiet place.

He carried that relationship into the crowds.

Into meals.

Into interruptions.

Into long walks.

Into healing.

Into work.

Into exhaustion.

Maybe that's what I'm learning in these chairs.

The chair isn't the relationship.

The chair is where I remember the relationship.

And then I get up.

I teach the class.

I answer the phone.

I drive the kid.

I make the dinner.

I tend to the body God gave me.

I do the next thing in front of me.

And God comes too.

There will be mornings when I have pages and pages to give Him.

There will be mornings when I have tears.

There will be mornings when I have questions.

And there will apparently be mornings when all I've got is:

Hi. I'm here. I love You. Help.

Maybe spiritual maturity isn't becoming better at performing quiet time.

Maybe it's becoming better at returning.

Returning when you're distracted.

Returning when you're tired.

Returning when you don't have anything profound to say.

Returning when yesterday wasn't your finest.

Returning even when all you have is a few minutes and a cup of coffee.

Because He was never asking for a performance.

He was asking for your presence.

And Dear Little Girl, you don't have to earn the presence of a God who has already promised you His.

So if today is one of those days, close the Bible when you need to.

Finish the coffee.

Get up from the chair.

And say:

“Come with me.”

Because He will.

And sometimes, that may be the most honest prayer you pray all day.

Love,
Worthy