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The Praying Place
Ronda Rich
It was back in the summer, when the sun hung high and hot in the sky and the droplets of humidity fell like unwanted drops of rain, that one of my precious friends called. For over six months, death, tribulations, heartaches and trials had stormed from the blackest, most thunderous clouds to batter her. She is a woman raised solidly in the truth who believes unwaveringly in the mightiest of power. She had been brought to her knees but not broken. The strength she showed in the most trying of times had been nothing short of remarkable and admirable. When she spoke, she did not cry. Her voice did not tremble. “I need a favor,” she said calmly. Long after I would marvel how the tone had not carried despair. Instead, it was saturated with resolve and humility. It’s hard to hear both at one time in a voice because the emotions tend to be diametrically opposed.