The Prayer That Got Stuck

When we forgive others before we pray, our hearts become whole and open , and a whole, trusting heart can bring anything to God, even the impossible.

Tonight's story is inspired by Mark 11:11-26, the Gospel reading for May 29, 2026.

About Baa Baa Bible: Bible-inspired bedtime stories for children ages 3-10. In every story, Jesus is the gentle Good Shepherd, teaching us the lessons of today's Bible reading. All the other characters are lambs and sheep, a warm reminder that we are all part of his flock. 

Transcript

SPEAKER_00 0:00

Good evening, little lambs. Tonight's story is called The Prayer That Got Stuck, inspired by the Gospel of Mark 111126. There is something wonderful and a little surprising in tonight's gospel. Jesus teaches us that when we pray, it matters what we are carrying in our hearts. He says, if you want your prayer to fly all the way up to God, if you want to trust God with something really big, even something as big as a mountain, then first you must forgive. A heart full of an old hurt cannot hold a new prayer, and when we let the hurt go, something opens up inside us, and the prayer gets through. And so tonight we are back on Shepherd's Hill with Biscuit and the little flock, who are about to discover exactly this. It had started at lunchtime, over nothing much at all. The flock had been playing a running game on the south slope, the kind where everyone races to the twisted hawthorn tree and back. And Biscuit, who was never really trying to be unkind, had laughed when Nettle's one flopped ear bounced sideways as she ran. Look at Nettle's ear, she had called out, the way you call things out when you are laughing and running and not stopping to think. It's like a little flag, laughter from the others, a small, involuntary sound. Nettle had stopped running. She had looked at Biskit. Her ear, the floppy one, the one she could never quite make stay up, twitched once, and then she had turned quietly and gone to sit at the edge of the meadow by herself. Biskit had known straight away that she had said the wrong thing. The laughter had felt good for half a second, and then had turned into something heavy in her chest. She had tried to go on running. She had tried to pretend it hadn't happened. But the heavy thing stayed. By evening, when the fire was lit, and old Wooly was warming bread, and everyone was settling into the good gold light, Nettle sat a little apart from the others. She wasn't crying. She was doing something quieter than crying. She was just being still in the way of someone who has pulled the door almost closed. Biscuit looked at her tuft in the reflection of the water trough. She didn't feel like talking. She didn't feel like the fire. She tried to pray. She knelt in the grass beside the big gray rock and closed her eyes and tried to send her words up to God the way she usually did. Easy, like letting a seed float on the wind. But tonight the words wouldn't go. They seemed to rise a little and then drift back down, like something was in the way. She tried again. She tried harder. Nothing. It feels stuck, she muttered. My prayer feels stuck. It often does, said a warm voice behind her. Biscuit turned around. Jesus was there, sitting on the low stone wall that ran along the edge of the meadow, his shepherd's cloak folded over his knees. He was looking at her the way he always did, unhurried, kind, like she was the only lamb in the whole wide world. Biskit flopped down on the grass in front of him. I can't pray tonight, she said. I keep trying, but it's like trying to sing with something stuck in your throat. Jesus nodded slowly. What are you carrying, Biscuit? She looked at the ground. The heavy thing in her chest nudged her. I said something unkind to Nettle, she said. At lunchtime, about her ear. It was the wrong kind of funny. She paused. I didn't mean to hurt her, but I think I did. I know, said Jesus. Biscuit looked up. Is that why my prayer is stuck? Jesus leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees, and said something that Biscuit thought was one of the most interesting things she had ever heard. When you want to bring something to God, he said, your whole heart needs to be in it, undivided, the way you'd carry a bowl of water on a windy day. Two hands, eyes forward, steady. But when you are holding a grudge in one hand or guilt in the other, even a small one, the size of a lunchtime laugh, your heart is divided. There isn't room for the prayer to grow big and clear. Biscuit was quiet for a moment. So God can't hear me? Oh, he hears you, said Jesus. He always hears you. But there is something more wonderful available than a prayer that is merely heard. There is a prayer that rises whole and true, from a heart that has nothing blocking the way. He looked at her steadily. And that kind of prayer, biscuit can move mountains. She thought of the mountain on the far side of the valley, the big dark one that had always been there. She tried to imagine it moving. Mountains? she said. Even mountains, said Jesus quietly. Biscuit sat with that for a long moment. Then she asked, very honestly, If I go and say sorry to Nettle, does that make my prayer work? Jesus smiled. It does something better. It opens your heart. Nettle was still sitting at the edge of the meadow when Biscuit found her. The stars had come out, first one, then three, then the whole scattered crowd of them, and the fire was warm and far enough away that this corner of the grass felt private. Biscuit sat down beside her without saying anything first. She was trying to think of the right words. The right words were harder than running. I'm sorry about what I said, she said at last. About your ear. It wasn't the right kind of funny, it was the unkind kind, and I didn't think before I said it. Nettle's flopped ear twitched. I know, she said. Then quietly. It's all right. You don't have to say that, said Biskit. Not if it doesn't feel all right yet. Nettle looked at her sideways. Her eyes were careful, but not closed. It will feel all right, she said. It mostly already does. I just needed to sit with it for a bit. Biskit nodded. She understood that. She sat with it too for a moment, the both of them there in the dark grass, under the stars. Then Nettle said unexpectedly, I don't really mind my ear, you know. I just mind when people laugh before they mean to be kind. That was what I did, said Biskit. Yes, said Nettle. But you came back. She said it simply, like a fact, but Biskit felt it land somewhere deep and solid, the way a small thing lands when it is true. They sat together for a while longer. Then Nettle moved closer to the fire, and Biscuit went with her, and old Wooly made room without making a fuss, and the two of them settled into the warm ring of the flock. Later, when the fire had burned down to its quiet red glow, and the other lambs were drowsy, Biscuit tried once more. She closed her eyes. She thought of nettle and felt nothing heavy. She felt something more like clean, the way the air feels after rain. And her prayer rose up easily this time, clear and whole, like a seed lifted on a steady wind. She didn't try to move any mountains tonight, but she thought with a small warm certainty in her chest that she could have. Tonight's gospel gives us a gift that is also a surprise, that forgiveness and prayer belong together. When we forgive someone before we pray, we are not just doing something kind for them. We are opening our own hearts wide enough for God's love to pour in. A whole undivided heart can trust God with the impossible, and that, Jesus says, is exactly the kind of heart that can move mountains. Dear God, thank you for hearing every prayer I whisper. Before I sleep tonight, I want to forgive anyone who has hurt me today, and ask forgiveness for anyone I have hurt. Make my heart whole and clean so my prayers can fly straight up to you. Amen. Good night, little lamb. God loves you so much, sweet dreams.