Mosquitoes in Prayer Service Finding Focus Amid Life’s Buzzing Distractions

Mosquitoes in Prayer Service

Finding Focus Amid Life’s Buzzing Distractions

By Kateb Shunnar

Y’all, when I was just a kid, Thursdays weren’t just Thursday. They were law. Sacred law. Mama and my grandmother ran that schedule like they were mayor and sheriff all rolled into one. “You gon’ get up, get dressed, and get your behind to prayer service, young man. No excuses. No fuss.” And believe me, in New Orleans, where the streets themselves seem to whisper secrets through the shutters and the jazz hums even when you ain’t paying attention, that was law. You didn’t argue. You didn’t ask. You just went.

Prayer service back then had its own rhythm, its own taste, like gumbo simmering low on a stove, letting every flavor blend until it was just right. Folks didn’t pile into pews; everyone claimed a corner, a slice of space where their heart could breathe. Some leaned on the back of a pew like they were watching a parade, elbows propped, eyes half-closed, half-watching. Others tucked themselves into a corner, knees drawn, whispering soft prayers you couldn’t hear unless you leaned close. And let me tell you, every soul had its own story, its own worry, its own hope.

Now, when I say mosquitoes, I mean distractions. Don’t get it twisted I ain’t talking about no little winged critters biting at your ankles. I mean the buzzing little things life throws at you stress about work, that one cousin you still haven’t called, pride whispering, ego puffing up, temptation knocking when you least expect it, the news, social media, money worries, your own dang thoughts. All of it, buzzing like mosquitoes around a July night in the Bywater. And lemme tell you, in a city like ours, full of music, food, and nonstop chatter, they find you fast.

I remember one Thursday, air thick like hot gravy, and me fidgeting in my corner. Knees sore from sitting too long, mind wandering. Those mosquitoes were busy, buzzing, “Did you call your cousin? Finish that project? Are you paying attention?” Right in my ear, like they were enjoying a front-row seat to my distracted brain. But then, the organ started, warm and sticky, rolling over the congregation like a brass band marching down Royal Street.

Sister Louise began to sing, her voice smooth, clear, slicing through the room like a trumpet riff echoing down Bourbon Street at midnight. The congregation hushed. Even the mosquitoes paused, unsure if they should dare interrupt. Then Brother Jenkins, always unpredictable, jumped in with a prayer he hadn’t planned. Hands waving, voice quivering, but full of honesty and heat. Half the congregation gasped, half laughed, all of us trembled in our seats. The mosquitoes? Dead silent.

Prayer service wasn’t just talking to the Creator it was feeling. Feeling the people around you, the energy, the unspoken words, the hope and the desperation tucked into every corner. That’s when you notice the mosquitoes creeping in. They’re sneaky, sly little things, buzzing with anxiety, depression, frustration, carnal desires, or ego. They make you think about bills while the prayer leader is praying. They whisper, “You got this, you don’t need the Creator.” That’s their favorite line. They’re everywhere.

And let me tell you, New Orleans humor doesn’t take a back seat in a place like that. Brother Thomas sneezed mid-prayer one night so loud, I thought he’d knock over half the pews. The congregation erupted, some laughing until they cried, some crying until they laughed. The mosquitoes, bless their little buzzing hearts, were confused. “What is happening? We were supposed to bite, not giggle!”

The best part? Those spontaneous moments. Children sneezing, hats tipping off heads, the occasional sibling elbowing one another. Someone dropping a hymn book with a thud that made it sound like a cannon. Laughter erupting mid-prayer, tears following immediately, and the room humming with a rhythm that you couldn’t fake. Mosquitoes hovering at the edges, trying to stay relevant, but failing every time. The Creator’s presence was thick, unmovable, undeniable.

Every Thursday, you saw it the subtle victories. Folks who’d been struggling with something heavy for weeks, finally letting it go in whispered prayers, feeling the relief seep in. You could almost see the mosquitoes swatting themselves in frustration. Miss Clara, usually quiet, told a story one evening about losing her job and her cat running away in the same week. She told it like a comedian telling a joke on Frenchmen Street, hands waving, eyes wide, everyone leaning in. And the mosquitoes? They scuttled to the back, realizing they weren’t welcome in that honesty.

Now, prayer service had its predictable rhythm, sure. Opening prayer, individual prayers, closing prayer. But in between, anything could happen. Brother Willie might burst out singing “Amazing Grace” in a way that made the floor vibrate, or someone would share a testimony so raw it made your heart skip. The mosquitoes, those relentless distractions, tried to interrupt. “Did you pay your bills? Did you text your boss? Did you remember your pride is on the line?” But all of that noise, all that fuss, it faded in the room. The prayers amplified, the presence thickened, and the mosquitoes? Backed off.

And there were quiet victories, too. You’d see someone kneeling, fists clenched, head bowed, sweating in the humid heat, and just know they were laying down their burdens. It was beautiful, messy, human. Laughter and tears coexisted. Someone whispered a prayer for a sick neighbor while the kid in the back banged on the pew like a drum. Distractions buzzed, sure, but the room was alive with honesty, devotion, and presence. And that’s the lesson, y’all. You notice the mosquitoes, you laugh at them, maybe swat at them a little, but you don’t let them take the front seat.

Mama and my grandmother taught me that. They showed me that life will buzz, will bite, will irritate, but your attention is precious. And when you commit yourself, when you kneel, when you show up with your whole self, even the most persistent distractions get quiet. They may hover, they may whisper, but they won’t control the room.

Over time, you get good at it. You hear the distractions, but you don’t let them run your service, your life. You notice a worry creeping in about something petty, and instead of letting it take over, you laugh quietly and turn your focus back. You remember Sister Louise’s voice, Brother Jenkins’ spontaneous prayer, Brother Thomas’ sneeze. You remember the people, the presence, the sheer humanity in the room. And the mosquitoes? They stay at the edges, fading into nothing, because something bigger is holding the space.

Prayer service is the practice of noticing and choosing. Life buzzes and bites, yes, but you can decide where your attention goes. You can let yourself laugh, cry, kneel, speak honestly, and show up fully. And in that, the Creator’s presence thickens, your heart aligns, and the mosquitoes the distractions don’t stand a chance.

The streets of New Orleans hum outside, full of music, chatter, smells of beignets and jambalaya, life’s chaos swirling around you. But inside, in that service, the distractions shrink. Your heart and your attention stretch, expand, fill the room, and the mosquitoes? They buzz harmlessly at the edges, impotent. They’ve learned: they don’t run this service. You do. The Creator does. And for those precious hours, everything that matters sits right there with you, breathing, singing, praying, and laughing together.