Kimberly Coyle

Last week, I got a massage for my ailing foot and the therapist told me quite a bit about his life unprompted.

As a general rule, I don’t like chit chat during a massage. Just work your magic and minister to my ailing body, please and thank you.

But more than I love silence, I love when people tell me about their lives without prompting because one of my life intentions is to be a non-anxious, safe presence for people and their stories.

Towards the end of the hour, he asked me what I do and without hesitation I said “I’m a writer.”

This is true, but very rarely the answer I lead with—usually I say I’m a tutor/teacher/instructor. I guess his story helped me tell the truth about mine.

When he asked me about my writing genre, I said I write non-fiction. Mostly in faith-based spaces. I don’t say that out loud very often because it’s complicated to say you’re a Christian these days without lots of qualifiers. but it felt good to be honest.

He said, well, I hope you’ve been praying over this foot. I laughed and said, I do sometimes—it sure needs it.

Then his hands hovered over my foot, and he grew so quiet and still that I lifted my head to look at him. After a long pause, he asked me if I wanted him to pray for me.

I’m usually wary of this with strangers, but he’d already ministered to my physical pain, so I said yes.

His prayer was so heartfelt and kind and soulful. I received it with my hand on my heart, holding his words for healing, for restoration, and for new beginnings close.

I thanked him and he said, “You can thank my Mama for that. That’s the result of a praying mother. She calls and prays with me every morning.”

As I walked to the car in less pain and significantly lighter than an hour earlier, I sent a blessing heavenward for his Mama. I hope it found her the way her prayers for her son somehow, inexplicably found me.