A certain thought woke me up. I imagined at the end of my life a sort of demonstration of all the prayers I had given, a physical scroll unraveled, revealing every word I ever uttered to my Creator. I saw before me the scrolls of other people, some seemed to stretch on forever in tiny print, while others had but a few lines. I wondered whose would be most interesting to read. Then I wondered if mine would elicit any real intrigue.
Were mine beautiful words sent heavenward in both times of defeat and triumph? Or were they lifeless repetitions haphazardly hurled above me with wavering consistency? My scroll was hidden, for my heart still held a beat. But I feared for the latter. I feared that when I met my maker my scroll would be inadequate for Him that saved me.