Say A Little Prayer for Me.

Dear Lou,

When people ask me where I am from, it is a complicated response. In the end, and if I want to give people the short answer (rare), I confidently reply, "I am from Little Rock, AR." I have a pretty large family on both sides of the parents and we have frequented Little Rock a lot in the last year. Unfortunately, these frequents have been for sad and shocking situations, but we choose to take merriment in each other's company and intelligent conversation. The last two times that the Hubbell class ventured to Little Rock, we stayed at the Embassy Suites Hotel in West Little Rock. It is a fine establishment with easy access to the interstate, sub par coffee, and a wonderful omelet bar.

The first time we were there, it was football season. The hotel was crawling with raving SEC football fans who were enjoying the pool area as well as the sports bar in the lobby. The second time we were there, I was a little confused. There was some sort of family conference happening and the place was swarming with couples who were wearing matching outfits and donning necklaces with name badges. My brother sneaked a pamphlet from the registration desk and we discovered that we were in the company of Family Life's Weekend to Remember. This is a conference dedicated to couples rekindling their love through seminars about God. There is some pretty interesting literature out there about this organization and I will keep my opinions about it to myself. After all - that is the not what this blog is about. This blog is about my love for you, Lou.

I have heard about bathrooms where you can see in the other bathroom through the mirror. I have heard about latrines where boys and girls share the space. I have heard about lavatories where the boys line is longer than the girls line. So, I had no idea what to expect when my nephew told me to go into the bathroom. "You won't believe what is in there, Kelley." Ok, he is thirteen years old and a pretty great kid. It couldn't be something too bad for my imagination. I walk in, use the bathroom, and everything is pretty typical. Imagine a hotel lobby bathroom. That's the Embassy Suites. So, I was confused. I leave the stone, multicolored stall and walk to the sink literally praying for foam soap. As fate would have it, my prayer could be heard; I could leave my prayer in the box that was sitting on the counter labeled, "prayer requests." That's right, ladies and gentleman, you can leave your prayer requests in the bathroom. Apparently, the best place to think of your prayers are in the restroom. Now, don't get me wrong, I come from a long line of women that when we are upset with something, we will excuse ourselves to the bathroom to collect ourselves. We might even say a little prayer hoping that whatever negative situation created the emotion will go away. I can count on both hands the number of times I have been in the bathroom with my friends saying, "I just wish that..." So, now there is a place where I can write it down and someone might be nice enough to pray for me. I can pray for my pain to go away and someone else can, too!

I recognize that this is not the purpose of prayer requests, and I am, by no means, trying to be crass or belittle people's needs to legitimate prayer. I have kneeled down many of times praying for my close friends battling with terminal cancer or praying that my Dad will survive a transplant. Here's my question, though: why the bathroom? These boxes were no where else in the hotel. Just in the bathroom. You can imagine the jokes that were being told among my siblings and, honestly, sometimes my best thoughts come to me in the solace of the stall. I can imagine that these boxes left when the Family Life conference did. My imagination could inform me what the leaders of the conference did with the notes in the box. If you are asking yourself if anyone actually used these boxes, just ask my 13 year old nephew, he opened the box. :)