The shaper of prayer

The shaper of prayer

(he bends the wind
like hands
(folding)
paper into birds—)

hush—        the hush—  
    of breath becoming **light**  
          becoming   
                   (a river of hush)  

                *(listen)*  

             the rain kneels soft  
             on the backs of stones  
            & somewhere,  
                    a mouth   
                       (stitched in silence)  
                     unravels—  
                     gold-threaded words  
                     drifting upward  
                             upward  

                      *(o let me be shaped  
                        into the shape of prayer—)*  

& in the hollow of his palm  
        a sparrow  
               sings.  

There are moments when prayer does not feel like words at all. It feels like breath folding in on itself, like wind shaped into birds by unseen hands. In The Shaper of Prayer, I can almost feel that bending—that holy hush where the soul is softened, pliable, and willing to become something it could not make on its own.

Sometimes prayer is not spoken but stitched in silence. It is rain kneeling softly on stone, a quiet surrender that rises like gold-threaded smoke toward heaven. There are days when my mouth, too, feels stitched shut—when I have no words left, only longing—and yet I sense God’s hands working anyway, shaping the rawness of my heart into something that sings.

Perhaps this is the truest kind of prayer: not the ones we craft neatly with language, but the ones that unravel us, leaving us open in His palm. To be shaped into the shape of prayer is to let go of form and let God do the folding—to become like paper in the hands of the Artist, trusting that He knows how to turn even our silence into flight.

And in that hollow, where the shaping happens, even the smallest sparrow finds a song.

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