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The Beauty of a Broken Record

I was born in the waning days of vinyl records. I would watch as my father pulled them from their sleeves and placed them on the turntable. When the needle dropped into the record's grooves, the speakers popped to life with a tide of white noise that was chased away by music. Some records were so worn that they hiccupped along or—even worse—repeated a section, over and over again.

The sound of a broken record—such are my prayers at times. The yellowed pages of my journals betray my stubborn consistency about this request or that concern. I rap on God's door, morning, noon, and night, half wishing I could blow the great house down and see some results!

I often reflect on the spirited persistence of my prayers; there is a fine line between bold and bullheaded. But in my pondering, I think back on the great texts on prayer and the great prayers themselves. Alongside honesty and deep worship, you will most often find the quality of persistence. It seems the hiccupped, repetitious sounds from another room are music to the ears of God. He listens along with us. At times, he even sets the needle right.

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