2 Timothy 1:3
“I thank God, whom I serve from my forefathers with pure conscience, that without ceasing I have remembrance of thee in my prayers night and day.”

When I read that verse, I have to slow down. Paul is in a dungeon. Cold stone. Chains. Uncertain future. And what fills his nights is not anxiety, not bitterness, not regret.

It is prayer.

And I have to ask myself, What do I do in my dungeon?

Mine may not have iron bars. Mine might look like a season I did not plan. A door that never opened. A responsibility that feels smaller than the dreams I once carried. Maybe I thought the Lord would use me somewhere else, in some greater way. But instead, here I am, in what feels ordinary, repetitive, unnoticed.

Paul turned confinement into calling.

Instead of saying, “Why am I here?” he said, in effect, “Since I am here, I will pray.” Night and day. Not casually. Not occasionally. But continually. The dungeon became his sanctuary.

And I wonder how many times I have tried to escape what God meant to use.

What if the quiet season is not punishment but preparation? What if the repetitive task is not limitation but invitation? Folding laundry. Driving to work. Lying awake at night. All of it can become holy ground if I choose to pray.

The truth that steadies me most is this: even when I fail to pray night and day, Jesus does not.

Hebrews 7:25 says He lives to make intercession for us. Right now, He is praying for me. He does not grow tired. He does not drift off. Psalm 121 tells me He never slumbers.

Sometimes I picture it personally. Not abstract theology. Not distant doctrine. But the Son at the right hand of the Father saying my name. Bringing my weakness, my fears, my missteps before the throne and asking for mercy and grace.

So when I find myself in a dungeon of my own, I do not have to waste it.

I can turn it into prayer.

Night and day.

Because the darkest place in my life may become the place where heaven hears my voice most clearly.