When You Don’t Know What to Pray

When You Don’t Know What to Pray—Start Here.

4 days ago

7 min read

If you’ve ever sat down to pray and felt like your words just floated into the air and disappeared, you’re not alone. Prayer can feel awkward, clunky, or even pointless—especially when you’re desperate for answers or direction.

I’ve been there.

But over time, I’ve learned that prayer is less about the perfect words and more about being willing to show up.

It’s less about talking—and more about listening.

Prayer doesn’t need to be fancy. It doesn’t need to follow a script. It doesn’t even need to be long.

Some of my most powerful prayers have been whispered through tears:

“Help me.”

“I don’t know what to do.”

“Please, just hold my hand through this.”

As a mom, I’ve found that God meets me right in the middle of the chaos. Praying for calmness when I am doing the dishes and mad at my husband. Or praying for clarity when I have tripped over his shoes for the second time. Praying for patience over the tantrum I don’t have the time for.

I don’t need to be kneeling in silence with worship music on (though I love those moments too). I just need to be real with Him.

I pray out loud while folding laundry. I pray in the car. I pray when I feel that tug in my chest that something isn’t sitting right. Prayer is now woven into the everyday—not just saved for Sunday mornings or bedtime routines.

Listening to God is where it gets harder… but also where it gets beautiful.

God doesn’t speak to me in a booming voice. I’ve never heard audible words. But He does speak—through Scripture, through worship music, through quiet nudges in my spirit that I can’t ignore. Through conversations with friends.

One of the most pivotal moments in my life was when I felt God asking me to leave my teaching career and homeschool my daughter. It didn’t make sense on paper. I loved my career. It wasn’t what I had planned. But I couldn’t shake the feeling.

I kept praying, “Lord, if this is from You, make it clear. I’m listening.”

And He did.

Through Scripture that kept showing up.

Through conversations I didn’t expect.

Through a peace that finally settled in my spirit when I stopped resisting.

That’s how I’ve learned to listen:

Pay attention to repetition in Scripture.

Notice what songs grab your heart and make you tear up.

Watch for doors God keeps opening (or closing).

Trust the peace that comes when you walk in obedience.

It doesn’t always make sense, but it always leads to deeper trust.

Honestly?

It didn’t happen overnight.

Getting to this place of praying, listening, and surrendering has been a process.

A lot of tears. A lot of wrestling.

A lot of learning the hard way.

I didn’t grow up with this kind of relationship with God. Faith was used as control. Rules were twisted into fear. It wasn’t about love or grace—it was about performance, guilt, and shame.

But then life happened.

Pain happened.

And in the breaking, God met me. I started asking questions. Asking God to show himself to me, to prove he was real, and not this mean, fearful God.

I was told I’d never have a child. That news shattered me because I had always wanted to be a mom. I spent my entire 20s building my career and pouring into other people's children. Never entertained the idea of my own.

And then God began softening my heart when I fell in love with my husband and I found myself praying bold prayers I never thought I’d say: “Lord, if it’s in Your will, give me a child. I promise to raise them to know You.”

That prayer was the beginning of everything changing.

When God gave me my daughter—my miracle—it changed the entire way I approached my faith. It felt like the biggest God wink. So much grace wrapped up in the most perfect little face. I didn’t want to give her a version of God that was rooted in fear or control. I wanted her to know a Jesus who is gentle, strong, present, and full of grace. But in order to do that, I had to re-learn Him for myself.

That’s when prayer became real.

That’s when surrender became my survival.

And it hasn’t been easy.

There are days I still cling to control.

I still sometimes overthink, over plan, and overdo everything, just trying to feel “enough.”

But God doesn't ask me to be perfect—He asks me to trust.

To lay down my need to prove myself.

To stop striving and start surrendering.

And every single time I’ve laid something down—my plans, my timeline, my fear—He’s filled the space with something better: peace. wisdom. clarity. purpose.

And if you’ve been here for a while, you know—You’ve read about my story.

You’ve felt the cracks in my voice through these words.

You’ve seen the layers of deep childhood trauma that I’ve been peeling back, one painful layer at a time.

You’ve walked with me through the grappling and the surrendering.

And now… I find myself here again.

In another season of wrestling with God.

But this time, it feels different.

This time, I’m not questioning if He’s good.

I know He is.

This time, I’m not afraid of what He’ll find if I open my heart.

Because I’ve already let Him see it all.

This time, I’m not begging Him to take the pain away.

I’m asking Him to use it.

There’s something about going through the fire again that reveals what’s actually been refined. And this time, I’m not fighting for control—I’m fighting for closeness.

For clarity.

For purpose.

I’m listening more.

I’m reacting less.

I’m choosing to believe that even this pain, even this chapter, is part of the story He’s writing.

I don’t need all the answers.

I just need His presence.

And He’s never failed to meet me there.

This season—this raw, uncertain, vulnerable season—is shaping me deeply.

But more than that, it’s shaping her.

Because Luci is watching.

She sees a mom who’s not pretending to have it all together.

She hears my honest prayers.

She feels the weight of quiet tears, and she sees me lift my head anyway.

I used to think I had to protect her from seeing my pain.

But now, I realize what a gift it is for her to see my process.

Because when she sees me cling to Jesus in the middle of grief or confusion, she’s learning what it really looks like to walk with Him.

She’s learning that faith isn’t always tidy.

That sometimes, it looks like worship with shaky hands.

Or choosing forgiveness when your heart is still hurting.

Or opening your Bible when the world feels loud and heavy.

She’s learning that surrender isn’t weakness—it’s strength.

That healing is holy work.

And that even when life is hard, God is still good.

I don’t know what the future holds.

But I know the kind of legacy I want to leave: A daughter who saw her mom trust God not just in the blessings—but in the battle.

The other day, we were in the car when a worship song came on—one of those songs that hits deep. Before I knew it, tears were streaming down my face.

Tears of surrender.

Of pain.

Of faith.

Luci looked over at me and asked, “Mama, why are you crying?”

I took a breath and told her the truth: “That song hit my heart. And when I’m sad or confused, crying to Jesus makes me feel better. It’s like I’m giving it to Him.”

She thought for a moment, then asked, “Are you sad because your dad was mean?”

She’s been hearing the quiet, heavy conversations lately.

She’s picking up on more than I even realize.

And in that moment, I could’ve brushed it off or changed the subject—but I didn’t.

When we got home, she asked to see a picture of him. So we sat down and had an honest conversation. I told her that sometimes, people we love hurt us. And when they continue to hurt us, it’s okay to set boundaries. It’s okay to not keep them close. But we can still pray for them. We can still pray for our own hearts. And we can ask God to be with us in the pain, because it does hurt.

It wasn’t a long talk.

It wasn’t perfect.

But it was real.

And I know in my heart, it planted something in her.

A seed of truth.

A glimpse of grace. A picture of what faith looks like in the mess.

Maybe you’re in a season like mine—where the pain feels fresh, where the answers don’t come easily, and where the surrender feels like a daily choice.

Can I just remind you of something?

You don’t have to have it all figured out to come to Jesus.

You just have to come.

With your honest heart.

With your tired prayers. With your questions and your tears.

He’s not looking for perfection.

He’s looking for your presence.

Let Him meet you right where you are.

Let your kids see you run to Him.

Let your story become the testimony that grows their faith.

You’re not failing when you cry in the car.

You’re not weak when you whisper prayers through pain.