Prayer Ain’t No ATM

Prayer Ain’t No ATM

by Kateb Shunnar

Now let me tell you somethin’, baby prayer ain’t no ATM, and The Creator sure ain’t runnin’ no 24-hour express window for folks who only show up when they short on blessings. It tickles me sometimes how people treat prayer like a vending machine you put in a few nice words, press “amen,” and expect peace to pop out like a bag of chips. But prayer ain’t about askin’ The Creator for stuff; it’s about talkin’, listenin’, and sometimes just sittin’ still long enough to hear your own heart stop fussin’. When I was comin’ up, prayer wasn’t some fancy ceremony it was the way we survived, the way we breathed when life got too heavy. My mama, Marva, and my granny, Celestine, could pray down storms, child. I seen them two women bend the air with their words. They didn’t just recite they conversed, like The Creator was right there in the kitchen, leanin’ on the counter, noddin’, and sayin’, “Go on, I’m listenin’.” You could feel the presence in that room. Sometimes the house would be quiet, except for the sound of red beans bubblin’ on the stove and Mama hummin’ some old hymn that made your soul feel washed. Mama used to say, “If you ain’t talkin’ to The Creator ‘bout it, you talkin’ to the wrong one.” And I knew she meant it ‘cause she talked to The Creator about everything, from the bills to the weather to the fact that somebody left crumbs in her bed after snackin’ on beignets. She’d pray while ironin’ clothes, pray while sweepin’, pray while stirrin’ gumbo, sayin’, “Creator, give me strength, ‘cause this roux thick but my patience thin.” And somehow, The Creator always came through maybe not in the way she asked, but always in the way she needed.

Now Granny Celestine, bless her heart, had her own style of prayer. She didn’t whisper, she declared. If you were anywhere within a half-mile radius, you was part of her conversation with heaven whether you wanted to be or not. She’d start talkin’ to The Creator about the whole neighborhood, includin’ Sister Annie Pearl, who was infamous for bringin’ that unseasoned potato salad to every church event. Granny would be like, “Now Creator, You know Annie Pearl mean well, but if You don’t step in and anoint her hand with a little salt, we gon’ have to stage an intervention.” Then she’d pause, wipe her forehead, and go, “I love her though she just needs culinary revelation.” And I swear to you, she’d end that prayer gigglin’ like she was in on some secret joke with The Creator. That’s the thing prayer don’t have to be solemn all the time. It can be tender, it can be raw, it can be funny. It’s the conversation that builds the bridge between who you are and who you’re becoming.

But these days, folks done turned prayer into a wish list. “Creator, send me money, send me a man, fix my cousin, change my job.” I’m sittin’ here like, baby, The Creator ain’t Amazon Prime. You can’t track your blessings by delivery date. Prayer ain’t about what you can get it’s about what you can grow. You pray long enough and right enough, your questions change. You stop askin’ for the storm to go away, and you start askin’ for strength to dance in the rain. You stop beggin’ for peace like it’s on sale, and you start buildin’ it inside you, one quiet “thank You” at a time. That’s how prayer transforms it starts in your mouth but ends in your heart.

I remember one summer evenin’ sittin’ outside with my cousin, watchin’ the fireflies play tag in the dark. The air was thick with that Louisiana sweetness jasmine, moss, and maybe a little leftover fried catfish floatin’ on the breeze. He looked over and asked, “You really believe prayer changes stuff?” I laughed. “Course it does. But mostly it changes you.” He squinted like I said somethin’ complicated. “You mean if I pray long enough, my problems go away?” I said, “No, fool, but you stop lookin’ at ‘em like they bigger than your purpose.” That’s when he got quiet. You could tell he was thinkin’. That’s what prayer does it don’t erase life; it expands your perspective ‘til you realize The Creator been holdin’ you through it all.

Now there’s a story we used to tell down by the bayou about a man named Old Man Bayou Joe. Lord, that man could grumble. Every evenin’, he’d sit on his porch with his sweet tea and fuss like he was tryin’ to win an argument with the sky. “Creator,” he’d say, “I been prayin’ three days straight for a new boat, and all You sent me was mosquitoes!” One night, while he was mid-complaint, a fat ol’ toad hopped up on his porch rail. “Ribbit,” said the toad, “maybe you oughta stop talkin’ and start listenin’.” Joe nearly dropped his glass. “Now hold up Creator, You speakin’ through frogs now?” The toad scratched its little chin and said, “Baby, The Creator can use anything, even you. You keep askin’ for what you want instead of thankin’ for what you got.” Joe puffed up his chest. “Well, I thank The Creator for this talkin’ frog, but I still want my boat.” That toad just sighed and said, “You hardheaded like a pot of rice with no water.” Next mornin’, Joe woke up and found his porch covered in frogs. Hundreds of ‘em. Croakin’ like a choir that missed rehearsal. “Creator, what is this mess?” Joe hollered. And somewhere deep inside him, he heard a quiet voice say, “I gave you company, I gave you lessons, and I gave you breath. You ask for more when you already overflowin’.” Joe stood there, blinkin’, then laughed so hard he near cried. “Alright, Creator,” he said, “I get it. You answered me you just did it with jokes.” And wouldn’t you know, after that day, his prayers changed. He stopped beggin’ and started thankin’. And life started shiftin’. His boat stopped leakin’, his garden grew stronger, and even his attitude turned sweet like cane syrup. The Creator didn’t give him a new boat; He gave him a new perspective. And that, baby, is the real miracle.

Prayer ain’t perfect. Sometimes it’s ugly. Sometimes you cry so hard you can’t even get the words out. Sometimes all you got is a sigh and a whisper, “Creator, help.” But that’s enough. The Creator ain’t listenin’ for fancy words; He’s listenin’ for honesty. The most powerful prayer you’ll ever say might not have words at all it’s the silence after the tears, the breath after the heartbreak, the laughter that slips out even when life don’t make sense. That’s prayer too.

I remember one night sittin’ in the dark after a rough week bills due, nerves fried, hope runnin’ low. I didn’t have no words left. Just sat there in the glow of a candle and whispered, “You still there?” And deep in that stillness, I felt a warmth, like somebody laid a hand on my shoulder and said, “Always.” That’s when I realized prayer ain’t about shoutin’ louder it’s about trustin’ deeper.

Now, I gotta tell you about another legend, one that Granny used to tell us kids when the rain was tappin’ soft on the window and the power went out. There was an old woman in Tremé named Miss Clara Duvernay. Tiny little thing, but her spirit was big enough to fill a church. Folks said when she prayed, even the streetlights leaned in to listen. She had a set of brass bells hangin’ on her porch, and she swore The Creator gave ‘em to her in a dream. Every time she prayed, them bells would ring all on their own soft, like wind playin’ music. One stormy night, thunder boomin’ like heaven had a marching band, Miss Clara kneeled by her window and said, “Creator, I ain’t askin’ for the storm to stop just give me the strength to stand through it.” And baby, them bells started singin’. Light flickered ‘round her house like fireflies doin’ praise dance. When the sun came up, every roof on that street was torn up ‘except hers. Folks said it was a miracle, and I believe ‘em. Years later, when Miss Clara passed, them bells disappeared. Gone poof. Some say The Creator took ‘em back. Others say if you pray sincere, and the night quiet enough, you can still hear them bells whisperin’ somewhere in the air, remindin’ you that protection don’t always come with an explanation.

And Lord, I’ve seen prayer test folks’ patience like Mardi Gras traffic on Claiborne. You ever ask The Creator for patience and then find yourself behind somebody drivin’ ten miles under the limit while you late for work? Baby, that’s the test right there. That’s when you find out if you really meant that prayer or if you was just talkin’. The Creator got a sense of humor, trust me. He’ll let life hand you a lesson wrapped in irritation just to see if you can unwrap it with grace. Prayer’ll humble you real quick. You pray for peace, He might send you somebody who can’t stop talkin’. You pray for strength, and next thing you know, you liftin’ burdens you never thought you could carry. But when you look back, you’ll realize every unanswered prayer was a setup for somethin’ deeper.

Prayer, to me, is like cookin’ gumbo you can’t rush it, and you better stir it right. You start with a roux the struggle, the heat, the mix of patience and fire. It look messy at first, all dark and uncertain. But keep stirrin’. Don’t stop. ‘Cause eventually, that roux starts changin’, turnin’ rich, thick, full of flavor. That’s your soul evolvin’. Then you start addin’ the rest your gratitude, your lessons, your laughter, your tears. Let it all simmer together. And when it’s done, you got somethin’ beautiful that can feed more than just you.

That’s what prayer does it nourishes what’s hungry in you.

You know, sometimes I think folks forget The Creator got jokes too. I asked The Creator once, “Why You always testin’ me?” And I swear I felt the answer float up in my spirit, clear as a bell: “Cause you keep prayin’ for growth, and growth don’t come without stretchin’.” I sat there, mouth open, ‘cause that’s real. We want blessings without balance, favor without formation, miracles without maturity. But prayer don’t work that way. It don’t skip the lessons it walks you through ‘em.

So now when I pray, I don’t just ask I thank. I say, “Creator, thank You for another day, even if it’s messy. Thank You for the laugh I needed, the breath I forgot to notice, the peace that showed up like a soft knock at my heart.” I pray for other folks too the ones who irritate me, the ones who broke me, and even the ones who still don’t know how to make potato salad right. ‘Cause prayer ain’t just about gettin’ right; it’s about lovin’ right. When you pray for somebody who wronged you, baby, that’s graduate-level faith. You start prayin’ for their healing, not their karma, and that’s when you know The Creator done grown somethin’ new in you.

Prayer don’t need to sound perfect it just needs to be real. You can pray in a church, in your car, in your kitchen with flour on your hands. You can pray with a song, a sigh, a tear, or a belly laugh. You can pray in your Sunday best or your Friday worst. The Creator don’t care about your grammar; He care about your gratitude. You don’t gotta beg Him to show up He already there, waitin’ on you to notice.

And let me tell you a little secret, one Granny used to whisper when she’d finish prayin’: “The Creator ain’t just listenin’ He laughin’ too.” I used to think she was jokin’, but I get it now. The Creator’s got to have a sense of humor He made us, didn’t He? Look around humanity’s funny. We trip, fall, and still try to act like we got it all figured out. But through all that, The Creator keeps lovin’ us, keepin’ us, teachin’ us to find grace in the grit.

So yeah, baby, prayer ain’t no ATM. It’s more like a long, slow gumbo of faith you gotta stir it, taste it, and let it thicken in your soul. It’s the laughter that slips through pain, the peace that follows chaos, the quiet knowing that you ain’t alone, not even when life got you stretched thin. And when that moment finally comes the one where you realize prayer ain’t about askin’ for somethin’ new, but thankin’ for what’s already bloomin’ you’ll smile, close your eyes, and whisper, “Thank You, Creator. This right here hit the spot.”

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