Prayer Dents

On a sweltering July day in Managua, Nicaragua, thirteen years ago, I met a prayer warrior.


I was in Nicaragua for two weeks with a small group of teenagers and adults from church, to build a school shelter and put on puppet shows for the local kids. One morning, our youth pastor took us to a poor section of town to meet a woman named Ruby. We smiled awkwardly at neighbors who came out of their tiny houses as we followed the pastor like ducklings through dirt and debris. Then, we came to Ruby’s house.


I was nineteen, Ruby was older. How much older? I have no idea. From my nineteen year old perspective, she looked at least fifty, but not past seventy. I was tall, Ruby was shorter. The top of her head came just to my armpit level. Her graying black curls peeked out from under a little white bonnet that reminded me of Strawberry Shortcake’s hat. Ruby wore a vivid, dark pink dress and her round, tan face was alive with well worn smile lines.


She invited us in, and we perched on stools and straight back chairs around her rocking chair. Every chair, table, and surface was adorned with some colorful bit of crochet work. Even the knobs at the top of Ruby’s rocking chair had little crochet hats, mimicking her own cap. She rocked and smiled at us, her legs too short for her feet to touch the ground.

Our pastor translated for us as Ruby told us of her work in the neighborhood. We were visitors for a couple of hours, while she had devoted her life to praying for and reaching out to the troubled young people there. At one point, she lifted her hem just enough to show us her knees. They were black, bruised, and each had a gnarled protrusion. Why? Because of prayer. Every morning, she spent hours on her knees, praying for the youth in her neighborhood. Warrior is the only word for her. Ruby went to battle. It showed in the marks on her knees and in the young people who turned from drugs and now follow Jesus.


This July, I’ve had the privilege of spending slow mornings reading the Bible and journaling prayers with God. I feel like communication with God opens up better when I write and don’t look at the clock. This morning, my finger began to hurt where the pen pushes into it. I rubbed the side of my finger gently with my thumb. There’s a dent there. I know it’s from a lifetime of writing (and probably holding my pen too tightly, like I tell my students not to), but it made me think of Ruby’s prayer knees. I like to think that my dented finger is the beginning of my badge of prayer warrior-ship. Ruby battled on her knees, and I battle with pen and journal. I hope that like Ruby, I will begin to see my community blessed and thriving as God answers prayers and has authority in all of our lives.


Make a dent today.