Writers 
I remember as a young boy years ago, there was a man on our street who did little works on cars for a living. No matter how hard he tried, he could never seem to get the smell of oil out of his hands. I remember asking him one time how he could always figure out what was wrong with the car just by listening to it. He turned to me with a grin and said, "You learn the sound of broken parts by knowing the sound of whole parts, first"
I've been trying to figure out how to make You fix the broken places in me Lord. I've been trying to tell You what makes the unwanted noises. What I need to do is stop for a moment, and listen to the sound of whole parts. I want to be rid of these annoying rattles; I want to silence these rattling noises in my soul, but I haven't taken the time to listen to something that's running right. Something that's running smooth.
I believe that is what prayer is all about. Listening to You run. Sitting in the engine room and getting to know the sounds. Getting to know the difference between healthy noises and unhealthy ones.
I think about the mechanic's hands again. His hands were never clean. They always had the feel of something that had been working, and never had the pride that comes with being able to afford only to work on your own cars. You are the same way, aren't You Lord? You are willing to get down in there with me, and work on what needs to be done. You don't get frustrated by the mess or the stench of it all. You are right there beside me, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, working on an engine that just won't stay running.
Teach me to listen to the sounds, Father. Teach me to know the difference between the simple wear and tear and the deeper noises that need more attention than an afternoon. Maybe I won't always know what You are going to do to make me run smoother, but I know the hands that are making the repairs. Your hands that never gave up on little old me, even though everyone else did.
