"And That Is Prayer" is a book of quiet returns - a tender invitation to those who have lived too long scattered, hurried, or numb, and are longing to come home to themselves, to presence, and to God.
Across seventy-five luminous meditations, Elle Driscoll-Miller leads readers into the ordinary holiness of being alive again. Each reflection is a doorway into stillness: a moment where breath steadies, the light shifts, and love is remembered. Written in language that feels more like prayer than prose, these pages offer not explanations, but encounter.
This is not a book about how to pray.
It is a book about how prayer keeps finding us.
Through the ache and exhaustion of modern life-the invisible holding-together, the spiritual fatigue that leaves us both busy and lonely-And That Is Prayer whispers that holiness was never lost. It has always waited in the ordinary: the sound of a kettle, the folding of a blanket, the breath of a dog sleeping nearby, the quiet that lingers after the day ends.
These pieces hold space for those who have forgotten how to rest in what is real.
They are written for those rebuilding their faith not from doctrine, but from the slow, honest work of noticing God in what remains. Each reflection ends the same way-not as repetition, but as rhythm: And that is prayer. It becomes the heartbeat of the book, a reminder that prayer is not something we perform to reach God, but the movement of God already reaching us.
Here, theology is not argument but belonging.
Faith is not performance but breath.
And love, steady and unhurried, is the presence that keeps remaking us from within.
For the weary and the hopeful, the skeptical and the still-believing, this book offers a way of seeing the sacred as near as the next inhale.
It speaks to the one who keeps showing up even when no one notices, to the one who has carried too much for too long, to the one who still aches for beauty and doesn't yet know that the ache itself is holy.
Every reflection becomes a small act of return-a re-membering of body, soul, and presence.
Together, they form a liturgy for the ordinary days, a tender theology of mercy, a way back to the quiet where everything true begins again.
This is the prayer that stays when the words are gone.
This is the breath that keeps moving through.
This is home.