I miss prayer. The anxious feeling I get right before His presence pours into the room. I'm always holding my arm and shaking my head and asking Him to be there and not believing He'll show up. He used to paint pictures on the back of my eyelids and press into my hands until I had to rest them on someone else. I've been talking to Him on the West Side Highway in short breaths and simple talk. Always with a lump in my throat because I haven't given myself permission to cry yet. He listens but I miss the warm bathwater air of prayer on couches and I miss the miracles and I miss the freedom of broken.