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My Lord departed with a mic-drop, a challenge issued with a quip that stopped my mind and commanded my attention. 

And, stop is exactly what I’ve done. I haven’t moved from my wicker chair, since He left. I’ll wager He left me to my own devices because I wasn’t listening well – could have been talking too much or thinking too much (which seems most likely). 

There are few places better for such stoppages, though. I’m stationed in the south-western corner where I have a whole view of my little “hermitage.” My bookshelves hang behind the supposedly empty brown chair, and a cedar chest from my great-grandmother covers the green floor between the two chairs. 

In this moment, I pause (as one must) to consider the challenge, because a challenge ought to be worthy before accepted. A rush into any challenge will leave a person overwhelmed by a quest, that might turn out to be not worth the effort. Blessedly, my Peterson pipe remains lit for these ruminations. 

The challenge itself, “Better get started,” appears a reasonable request. I recall such an instruction from a former track coach yielded excellent results. Then, I must remember the astounding things God shows me, when I travel on with Him. 

A tamp of the pipe brings an awareness of my fatigue. I’ve already come so far. I have lots of challenges besides the last one, so there’s plenty to think about for the days to come. I might not even have the capacity for more miles on the journey. I’d probably have better results, if I took a sleep and tried again with a fresh mind. 

Though, the pipe needs a re-light, and the flame reminds me that God will overcome my fatigue, should I accept His guidance. Such a thought brings to mind the Source of this challenge: my Lord. Unanswered calls from Him tend to miss grand things. Curiosity has led me down many a trail based on more inferior sources and to much less satisfying finds (if I’m honest). Given that Source of the challenge, there’s a sense of a wooded path simply begging to be hiked.

Annoyingly, my pipe leaves me by refusing any of my last five attempts to relight it. I must consider retiring to bed as a first thought to my finished pipe, but I cannot shake the intuition that my pipe is an agent in my Lord’s conspiracy. Regardless, this pipe needs to be taken care of. 

From the wicker chair, I look across my cement floor, past my desk, and on the other side of my rolly chair to my ashtray. An ashtray doesn’t start as a necessity for a pipe smoker, so I do not carry it with me – I prefer to travel as light as possible. At present, though – the ashtray may well be on the far horizon, but the time has come for this exhausting trial. 

I stand with a great sigh before making the five steps to the ashtray. There is some excitement though as an intruder demands the vehement defense of my home. After the defeat of a cockroach, I arrive at my sought after destination.

Now, emptying a pipe aids the end of any conversation. It’s an opportunity to acknowledge the end, because there is little more to show an end than ash falling from a pipe. When the ash is gone and the bottom of the pipe is empty, I can rest assured that everything is done and ready for the next time. 

I must consider that my pipe betrays me and enters into service of my Lord, though. After dumping the ash into the tray beside the desk, my Czech-tool hits a deep clump at the bottom of my bowl – There’s a good bit left in this one. I’m left, then, with a stronger sense of something left undone. 

I attempt to replace my Peterson pipe in its rack on the bookcase behind my desk, but my Northern Briar Dublin takes a knock. Regretfully, no one sees my left-hand deposit the Peterson safely in its place, while my right catches the falling Northern Briar. I paraphrase Sherlock Holmes: “This is a two-pipe conspiracy.” Surely, such an acrobatic catch should earn a spot on some highlight reel.

Since my next step, now, appears decided for me, I collect my usual jar of tobacco, but I shake my head at that jar, choosing instead to open a new tin of a Christmas present from a very considerate uncle. After all, if I’m stuck here, I might as well make the most of it. 

Loading tobacco into a pipe becomes muscle-memory after a point. The body, simply, goes through its motions – which (if trusted) will yield a pleasantly packed pipe most of the time. After I place the pipe in the tin, my fingers roll the sheets of University Flake into the pipe. 

Meanwhile, my mind tries to defend the appearance of being left to my own devices, as far as figuring out this “pray like I did” challenge, yet that defense falls against the pipe conspiracy. The debate rages between my Lord’s dramatic exit and the clear efforts of inanimate objects to the contrary. Between presentations from both sides, one question sneaks into the gaps of the argument: How does God pray? Another question follows in the alternating spaces: What can I do to imitate that? 

I place the pipe between my teeth with a chomp before cleaning up the desk. With everything back in its place, I return to my wicker chair. “All right, Treo,” I say without my eyes leaving my pipe. 

Before I can finish my statement, my Lord interrupts, “Oooh, ‘Treo,’ I like that, so you are going to make an attempt tonight? Gooooo ooooonnnn.”

I give an eyeroll that would be obvious from three states away. “Well, good – You’re still here,” I say with as much “hmph” as I can. “All right, Treo, let me ask You something: What have I got to begin answering this ‘pray like You’ challenge?” 

My Lord wraps His bottom lip over His top one. He says, “Let me think. If I’m not mistaken, you’re got chapters 6 & 26 from my buddy, Matthew.” (provide links) 

“Oh yeah,” I say, “specifically the part about Your prayer and You praying in the Garden of Gethsemane, right?” 

“You have that now for sure, Joe.” 

I close my eyes, trying to picture those passages in my mind. A comparison of the teaching in Chapter 6 with the practice of it in 26 strikes me. I notice the variations of the moment in 26, against the ideals of 6. Then, my mind wanders into what comes before the prescribed words in 6 and before the spoken words in 26. I say, “Maybe I’m already impersonating Your prayer style in one, and only one, way?”

Treo laughs; it’s a small, chuckle-ly thing, and He says, “Well, I appreciate that you would grasp for such a small part, but you seem to me to lack any remote idea, so this should be interesting: What would that be?” 

I look around my basement office from the lapel pin board to the ashtrays beside almost every chair, and I point behind my Lord, saying: “Look around You, Treo. I, at least, have a private space.” (6:6 & 26:39) 

Treo shakes His head with every amount of doubt possible. “I see a sketchbook and paints on this table beside me – you don’t know how to paint. Then, there’s the rock collection on this cedar chest in front of me; when was the last time you collected rocks? Plus, that’s a very cute giraffe puzzle, but I’m guessing it ain’t yours. So, you’ll have to try again, buddy.” 

“Actually, if You’ll look behind You, Treo, You might notice three rocks in the ‘museum of a thousand years.’” I say, “You might also notice several items that once were on this cedar chest, yet they remain in direct view of my chair. Specifically, I’d point out the broken crucifix and Rafiki figurine, which surely belong to only one member of my family.” 

If Treo has a beard, He would rub it here. It’s a sign of considering my observations, while seeing competing evidence. “Come on, man,” He says. “That crucifix got moved because it’s broken, and I know you didn’t do that. Plus, there’s a Bryan College diploma up there, and you’ve never even visited that place. Let’s not forget the carving of the lady with the pineapple – that doesn’t look like your style. So, you can’t even claim that as a private space, much less the room.” 

My head rocks from side to side. My family has certainly added their pieces, so I can’t deny the reminders of others, but those reminders only serve to keep those, who should be in my prayers, close to mind. I can easily lose track of them as I stare into the middle-distance or wrestle with the latest story. 

Still, these additions fail to transform the substance of the place – After all, my office is still referred to as “The Hermitage.” As a result, I ask, “Hold on, who else is here? I mean besides the two of us, Treo. And – if that’s the case, I fail to see an absence of at least private space.” 

I sense that Treo closes His eyes with an intentionally long inhale and exhale. “So, you’re asking for a starting line?” He says, “You want me to agree that you have done the bare minimum: Meaning, you’ve read through the instructions before prayer, so let’s applaud that. Fine. You should know though that I’ll grant that only as a starting line, yes?” 

Reflexively, my index finger shoots toward Treo. I say, “That’s all I’m asking for right now. I simply want the concession of a starting line. I confess that I have a long way to go, but a starting place would, at least, give me the guidance and encouragement that You promise.”

My Lord rolls both lips into a straight line, as if weighing a line between indulgence and encouragement. After a single nod, Treo says, “Okay. We have a starting line, so you should consider this the gun. Where do we go from here?” 

I bow my head in gratitude and say, “Treo, wherever You lead.” 

Treo says, “All right, then – here we go,” with the combined seriousness of a wizard entering an abandoned mine and enthusiasm of a two-year old turned loose in the woods beside her house.