I have a prayer spot, though I didn't purposely choose it. (Perhaps it chose me?)
After I drop my boys off at the high school, I pull into a quiet street and pray. I say prayers for them and their day at school, and I offer up prayers for my husband, for friends for whom I pray daily and for matters (of heart, life, family or otherwise) that are most pressing. It is a place where I am able to crawl deep into God's heart unusually quickly, and where unique (and sometimes dramatic) things have happened in the spiritual realm.
I wrote in one post of how the centers of my palms tingled while praying deeply for a friend; it happened there. The Holy Spirit's gentle voice (of which I wrote yesterday) came to me there. I developed a closer relationship with Mary, the Mother of God, in that spot.
This unassuming part of a quiet small town street draws me. I think I initially began taking that route because the home of a recently deceased friend stands there and I wanted to pray for the repose of her soul as I passed by. I then began pulling over to pray on a regular basis before continuing with my day.
This morning I pulled over in my usual spot under a tree and wondered why this place would be unique. I looked up, took in the sight in front of me and realized why. Our Lord resides in the Eucharist just yards away, across the street within tiny St. Joseph's Catholic Church. He is not bound by walls; His presence in the tabernacle reaches out beyond the wood, glass and brick of the building that surrounds Him. He, in fact, surrounds it.
All this time I thought the spot was random and convenient; in reality He called me to it. His call is gentle, like a breeze; He doesn't shout. But call He does, and in its quietness and sweetness He often goes unrecognized until we look back.
I am taken with the way He woos with such humility, this lover of our souls.