The Prayer Chair

My Mom's got a prayer chair. Every morning she gets up and sits in her chair nestled in a bay window beside her piano in the library and reads her meditations and prays. Her dog, Doolie, is her lone prayer partner (except when grandchildren are visiting and she invites the early risers in to play on the rug in front of her). Ever since she began this ritual, I've secretly desired it for myself. Quiet. Reflective. A piece of the day carved out in silence, solitude and solemnity. A little taste of heaven on earth.

Since I have started rising early before the sons rise to go on walks with my neighbor, I have tried to initiate my own prayer time in my chair. Admittedly, I don't settle in for as long as I know my Mom does, but even for those few minutes in prayer amidst the silence of sleeping boys, I have managed to appreciate a prayer chair.

My chair is big--a "chair and a half" I believe they call it--with a lovely tone on tone light cream colored herringbone fabric. My sister gave it to me. It's cozy. It's where I write. It's where I read books to my children. It's where I keep a stack of books and papers for me that I may never finish. It's where I talk on the phone. When the front door is open, it's where I can sit and see my children playing on the front porch. It's where my children bring me treasures to keep on my little antique end table beside me. It's in reaching distance of my coffee cup or diet coke can. And it is usually decorated with an assortment of legos or nerf bullets on its generous arms. It sits beneath one of our Eastern windows, in the corner of our front room, in the only spot not in direct line of sight of the television. Heaven!

The other morning, I awoke for my morning ritual and made my way as quietly as possible to the front room, past the children's door, to my chair. Apparently, I wasn't as quiet as I had hoped, because as my back hit the cushion, I heard the boys' door crack. Out came my #2. As he turned the corner to enter the front room, his little eyes lit up and a crooked little smile crept across lips. With a twinkle in his morning eyes, he whispered, "Mom, are you in heaven or something?"

It took me a moment to catch his meaning. I looked quizzically at him and he clarified, "It looks like heaven is poking into our house!" as he gestured toward the ribbons of sun beams rushing through the window panes onto my chair. And there I sat in my chair, in the middle of the sun stream like a rock in the middle of a running creek. He giggled at his clever observation. I smiled back and and invited him to join me on the chair where he immediately started jumping into the beams trying to catch the dust specks glittering in the white light of morning. That reminded me that I needed to dust after my walk.

But, now every time I sit in my chair to pray, when the children are sleeping and the early morning sun is spilling in, I thank God that He has given me a taste of heaven on earth.