There is a question that has bothered me for a long time, and it has bothered me because the answer makes me uncomfortable. The question is this: if I really believed what I say I believe about the people in my life who do not know Christ, would my prayer life look anything like it does?

I am not asking whether I pray for them at all. Most of us pray for the people we love. We pray that the test results come back clean, that the kid finds a job, that the marriage holds together, that the surgery goes well. We pray for things we can see going sideways, and we pray for things we hope will go right. Those are real prayers, and God receives them.

The harder question is whether we pray about the one thing that actually matters most. The eternal weight of a person’s standing before a holy God is, in the weight of eternity, the most consequential thing about that person, and yet, it is precisely the topic our prayers tend to skirt around. We pray for their health, finances, kids, stress, and decisions. We rarely sit and weep before God for their soul.

If you ask a man what he is most proud of, the answer usually comes back fast. The trophy on the shelf, the deal he closed, the ribbon his kid won at the meet, the college acceptance letter, the new grandbaby. Ask a woman the same question and the answer often turns toward family from the start. The categories are remarkably narrow when you listen carefully. Trophies, grades, money, babies. They’re the bumper sticker boasts and the Christmas letter highlights. My son is an honor student. My daughter made the dean’s list.

There is nothing wrong with any of that, exactly. Children are a gift, and seeing them flourish is part of the joy God hands to parents and grandparents. The trouble comes when those markers become the whole story. A young person can carry every external sign of success that the world hands out, and still have nothing of an inward life with God. They can be beautiful, athletic, gifted, well-employed, and well-married, and still be sleepwalking toward an eternity without Christ.

There are people at church potlucks who eat with the caution of a bomb technician. They take small portions. They angle the spoon just so. Most of all, they work hard to keep the baked beans’ juices from touching the coleslaw. The line on the paper plate is sacred, and anything that crosses it gets its own trip back to the table for a clean plate.

I think most of us do something similar with our Christian lives. There are corners of our days where we are happy to let new-creation character have its run of the place. Our character shows up on Sunday morning. It shows up when someone is watching. It shows up when we are the ones telling the story later. The character we have been given in Christ is allowed to operate in the public-facing rooms of the house.

The private rooms are a different matter. The marriage. The kitchen table at 9:47 p.m. when everyone is tired and nobody has the energy to be kind. The group text with the extended family. The parking lot at work. These are the places where we unfortunately decide that new-creation character has gone far enough. It can wait here while the old self takes over for a while.