55 Powerful Halloween Prayers for Protection to Keep Your Family Safe

God, I’m hiding in the shadow of the Most High tonight.
Keep me there.
Keep my family there.
And let us rest under it.

The LORD is my refuge, my fortress, my rock,
he is the door and he is the lock.
I will trust him tonight, and I will not run,
whatever walks past and whatever has fun.
He is my God, and I am his own —
so we go out together, and we come back home.
Amen.

God, you deliver us from the snare —
from everything that could catch us unaware.
Tonight, we are not watching everything.
You are.

He covers us with feathers and with wings,
he holds the small things and the big things.
His truth is a shield and a buckler too —
so what is there left for the dark to do?
Under his wings we’ll tuck in tight,
and sleep beneath them through the night.

I will not be afraid of the thing that goes bump,
or the thing that goes quiet,
because the one who made the night
is standing in it with me.

You are my habitation, the place that I live,
the roof that I sleep under, the breath that I give.
You are the hallway, you are the stair,
you are the kitchen light left on somewhere.
So this house is your house, and this night is yours too —
and I am at home in the middle of you.
Amen.

God, over this house: your good word.
Over this address: your keeping.
Over the people asleep inside:
your watchful, unblinking love.

He gives his angels charge over me,
to keep me in every way,
whether I’m walking, or riding, or asleep,
whether it’s night or it’s day.
So I won’t walk alone down this street —
there are more of us here than I see.

You set your love on me, God.
Not because I earned it tonight,
not because I was brave or careful —
just because you love me.

When I call, you answer.
That’s what you said.
So tonight, when I say your name
in a whisper,
in a hallway,
in a hurry —
you will be there.

With long life you satisfy —
not just tonight, but the mornings after,
and the Octobers after that,
and the kids’ kids running through the leaves.

For every name in this house tonight,
be the shadow and be the light.
For the ones asleep and the ones awake,
be the promise we didn’t have to make.
Cover us all — the loud, the small —
and be our refuge through it all.

God, as people come up these steps tonight,
let kindness meet them here.
Let this porch be a safe porch
for everybody who knocks on it.

The sun goes down, the street lights come on,
the little ones yawn and the day is gone.
You are the shade when the heat is high,
you are the roof when the storm comes by.
So as the dark comes rolling in,
be the wall we’re living in.
Amen.

For our street, God —
every house, every porch, every kid on a bike,
every person who lives behind a door we’ve never knocked on.
Keep them, too.

God, before the story, before the light goes off,
thank you for tonight.
Thank you that we made it home.
Thank you for this small, ordinary, holy moment
with a book and a blanket and a kid.

That costume on the chair is just a costume.
It has no eyes, it has no room
to walk, to follow, or to speak.
It’s fabric, thread, and one loose seam.
So I can lie here, unafraid,
and let the night be what it made.
God, be the quiet in this place —
and put your hand upon my face.

God, I heard a noise.
It might be the house,
or the wind, or the fridge,
or something I don’t know yet.
Thank you that I’m not alone with it.
Help me go back to sleep.

I checked the locks, I checked the door,
I checked them once and once more.
I know that worry isn’t trust,
I know my hands are doing too much.
So here’s my prayer: keep them, God —
and quiet me, though I am flawed.
The house is yours, the night is too,
and I am handing both to you.
Amen.

God, thank you for the lamp we leave on —
the one that makes the hallway
less of a mystery.
Let your word be that kind of light
for the people in this house.

That mask was plastic, painted, fake.
It cannot move. It cannot wake.
It has no legs to walk this floor,
it isn’t standing at my door.
And if it were, you’re bigger still —
you’re God, and masks do what you will.
So help me sleep the whole night through,
and know that I am held by you.

God, I was fine, and then I wasn’t.
Nothing happened.
The room is the same room.
But my chest is doing something
that makes the dark feel louder.
Stay with me until it’s quiet.

God, that bad dream came out of nowhere,
it woke me up and it wasn’t fair.
It wasn’t real, but it felt so true,
and now I’m lying here, thinking of you.
So thank you for my mom, who came,
who said my name and said it plain.
Help my body find its rest —
and let my head lie on your chest.
Amen.

God, my feet don’t want to go.
That’s okay — my feet don’t have to decide.
I’ll say your name
and take one step,
and then another.

I’m not asking you to change the night.
I’m asking you to change my sight —
to see the room the way it is:
a bed, a blanket, and a kid.
The dark is dark; it isn’t mean.
It’s just the light turned down, unseen.
So hold my heart and hold my hand,
and be the floor on which I land.

God, bless the one who got up
when they heard their little brother crying.
Bless the one who shared the blanket
without being asked.
That’s the kind of brave
we don’t always notice.

The house is creaking, step by step,
the hall is dark, the doors are kept.
My ears are working overtime
for sounds that aren’t a nursery rhyme.
So God, who never sleeps or nods,
who keeps the watch for all of us,
please take the listening from me —
I’ve done my shift; now let me be.
Amen.

God, the porch light was on and somebody knocked.
Thank you that we were home.
Thank you that we can be the house
where somebody gets a treat
instead of a closed door.

God is bigger than the dark,
bigger than the noisy park,
bigger than the scary mask,
bigger than the things I ask.
God is here and God is near,
God is bigger than my fear.
So I’ll close my sleepy eyes,
underneath the big God skies.

God, I’m the one who’s supposed to be brave.
I’m the one who checks the rooms
and says it’s fine.
And mostly it is.
But tonight I’m telling you instead —
because you can hold what I can’t say out loud to them.

The space between the rooms is dark,
the space between my thoughts is dark.
I put a light in every hall,
but I can’t put a light in all
the places I can’t see tonight.
So be the light I didn’t plan,
be the lamp I couldn’t hold,
be the hallway that I’m walking,
be the one who’s gone before me,
and be the hand that’s not my own.

God, tonight the room is just mine.
No little sister breathing.
No one’s feet in my back.
It’s quiet —
and quiet is a whole different thing to sleep in.

The LORD bless you and keep you through the night,
the LORD make his face shine on you, and be light.
The LORD lift his countenance over your bed,
and give you his peace at the foot and the head.
So sleep, little one, in the shelter of grace —
there’s nothing tonight you have to outpace.
I’ll be down the hall, and God is right here,
and both of us love you. So sleep without fear.

God, the wind is doing its October thing —
knocking on the windows,
pushing at the gutters,
making the whole house sound alive.
You made the wind too.
So I’ll let it sing and go to sleep.

God, this one is scared.
Not pretend scared, not the easy kind —
the kind that makes a small body shake
and a small voice go quiet.

So I’m praying the long version tonight.
I’m not going to hurry it.

You made this child.
You made the ears that heard the sound
and the heart that won’t slow down.
You are not confused by any of it.

Hold them the way a mother holds —
close, and for as long as it takes.
And if I have to stay up until the dark gives in,
give me enough of you to stay.

Amen.

God, put a hedge around this door —
the one everybody walks through.
Let only good come in,
and let only good go out.

Here is the place where the outside comes in.
Here is where the day ends and the evening begins.
Bless the shoes and bless the coats,
bless the doors and bless the notes
that get stuck on the fridge by a magnet or two —
bless everybody who walks through.
Amen.

Over every window, God —
let the frames hold and the glass hold,
and let the people inside
sleep like they’re the safest people in the world.

At this table we count our candy,
at this table we say our grace.
At this table the loud ones yell
and the little ones leave a trace.
So God, be the rock at the head of this table,
and the calm in this noisy place.

God, this hallway is the wall between
the world and where my kids sleep.
Walk it before me,
and stand at the door I can’t stand at all night.

You are our refuge and our strength,
so here’s the van, and here’s its length,
here’s the seat that we buckle small,
here’s the street we drive after all.
Bring us home the way we came —
same kids, same shoes, same happy name.
Amen.

God, around the yard tonight —
the fence, the gate, the creaky thing,
the broom we never put away.
Let it all be ordinary in the morning.

God, thank you for the bowl of sweets,
for the little feet that walked our street.
Bless the ones who rang our bell,
bless the ones who didn’t as well.
And when the candy’s finally gone,
let us still be the porch light on.

God, every person who comes up these steps
is somebody’s kid.
Bless them, protect them,
and get them home safe.

You’ll keep in perfect peace
the ones whose minds are stayed on you.
So keep our neighbors — left and right —
whatever they believe, whatever they do.
Because a street is not a street
without the people on it too.
Amen.

God, we can’t stand on their porch tonight.
So stand there for us.
Around their house, over their street —
keep them, and tell them we love them.

Thank you for the little screen that tells me we’re all home —
for the ‘we’re safe’ and the ‘found the shoe’
and the ‘goodnight’ sent three times.
Bless the family I can’t see tonight,
the ones in other houses in other towns,
and let them sleep as easy as we will.

God, be in the gym with the games and the greeters,
in the parking lot with the flashlights,
in the kitchen with the cocoa.
Let tonight be a memory somebody keeps.

We keep our porch light off tonight.
We stay in and we hold our own.
We don’t think less of anyone
who’s out there having fun.
We just chose a different way,
and both of us are loved the same —
so guard our hearts, and guard our home.

God, the whole street tonight —
every porch light on,
every porch light off,
and every person in between.

Now the pumpkins are getting soft,
and the candy bowl is down to the last.
The costume’s at the bottom of a bin,
and the season is moving past.
So keep us in the ordinary week —
no weapon against us will stand.

Living room, kitchen, hallway, stairs,
the bedrooms and the bathroom and the one room nobody uses —
God, walk it all again tonight,
and leave your peace in every corner.

The LORD of hosts is with us — that’s the word I say
with one kid on my shoulders and one walking slow the way.
The God of Jacob is our refuge, and I’m holding on tight
till we reach the next porch and the next porch light.
So be behind us and ahead,
be the street and be the step,
and be the one who walks us home.

God, this little lamp costs almost nothing
and it tells the whole street
that somebody’s awake in this house.
Thank you for light we can leave on.

God, do for us what you did for Job —
put a hedge around this house,
around everyone who lives in it,
and around everything we have on every side.

Hedge is an old word.
It means something small that stands
between the field and the wind.

So tonight, be our hedge.
Be the wall of fire around a quiet house.
Be the door that closes and the door that holds.
Be the last thing we think about
before we fall asleep in the dark you’re standing in.

Amen.