The Altar of My Bed

Because not all prayers rise in churches.

My bed has heard more confessions
than my lips ever dared to speak aloud.
It has caught tears
that even rosaries didn’t witness.
It has held me in nights
where my body was too weak for kneeling
and my soul too tired for words.

My bed has been an altar.
A place where I laid down
not bread and wine,
but fear and silence,
failure and ache.

Some nights I whispered a Psalm.
Other nights I only whispered, “Help.”
And Heaven did not dismiss either.

There were nights I wondered
if prayers prayed lying down
ever reached as high as the ceiling.
But they did.
Because grace does not measure posture—
it measures surrender.

Because prayer doesn’t always wear robes.
It doesn’t always sound polished.
Sometimes it’s the broken cry
between the sheets,
the surrender that rises with a sigh,
the Amen hidden in exhaustion.

God doesn’t only dwell in temples.
He dwells in bedrooms,
in tear-stained pillows,
in hearts that still dare to hope
even when words refuse to come.

Because every place of surrender
is sacred ground.

Not all altars are made of stone.
Some are made of beds,
where the holiest sacrifice
is simply showing up to God as I am.