It’s a rainy day at the beach, and that’s a good thing.  I’ve been thinking some today of the past couple of months and the little pieces of insight, conviction, rest, and rejoicing that have come my way.  In particular I’ve been reading the book a number of you are reading with me, The Celtic Way of Evangelism, and letting it rub against the experiences I’ve been fortunate to have.

The picture in the post is a sundial (perhaps 6th century) on west coast of Ireland that stands on the grounds of what was once the Kilmalkedar monastery.  It divides the day into times of common prayer, every three hours.  Three times a day the monks would cease from their business and gather for prayer, times literally carved in stone.

Prayer was the constant for these ancient saints.  It structured their day, in was their common bond, and it was from a praying community that most would eventually be sent to extend the faith against incredible odds.  It didn’t matter whether they felt like praying.  They prayed, as if like breathing itself, there was no other option.

I’m wondering about that kind of humble constancy which forms the backbone of such a resilient life. What does that look like for me? How does prayer become more than the bookends to a day that is lived as if it is all up to me?