Still

[this is the Lord's Prayer in my own words as God has put it on my heart as of late]

You said to come. 'The door is open' you said. 'Come boldly' you said. Well here I am. Here. Low. Though not by choice. Show me I can believe you. Don't let your whispers be so faint.

Father and child. Adopted by grace, but I need the space to face you for real. I brought my appeal. It's in my pocket with a couple of shiny pennies. Is two cents enough to access the excess of your mercy? To make sense and confess of my empty fisted hands. Two coins for royalty.

You don't have to hear me, to let me close, or to care. But I carry your name. Please let me keep it. Though I'm low, gratitude is deep and grounded. I am surrounded by wisps of black, my joy confounded. So don't let me sink, don't think to let me stain the beauty of my namesake with gray tendrils of selfishness.

I need a correction of my imperfections. Nudge my emotions in the right direction. I elect you to rule my thoughts. Royal boundaries extending to eternity's tomorrow. I yearn for the end of this lurking sorrow. But more than that. The ache is a pandemic- a global groaning for your supremacy, endlessly seeking your justice and violet transcendence. Please come.

And this is my appeal. Or more like the opposite. I'm confident I have it right. My control is a focused line. Dominant. And yet the line is fading. Graphite. Straying, parading in vacant alleys where rays once knew. I thought it was my story but it's yours. I want my way still, but God, your will. Until I can mean this, until I can sing this, your will.

Day after day you satisfy and provide, all my needs supplied. I can't deny you're faithful. The sun still rises, the spring brings green. What seems routine is you, behind the scenes, saying "Here. For you." And do I notice? Wild flowers, green blades, but my tree isn't blooming. I fume with no regard for yesterday's life and tomorrow's hope and I'm sorry.

My pride is a mile long chain I drag at my side. I try to pry it off. To break it. But I can't. I've raked barren fields with it, I've piled it in the corner. And the chain is still the main weapon I wield in the worthless battles I wage that gain me nothing but heartache. Forgive me the stains I've left behind and I'll forgive the pain the links intertwined. Now to do it joyfully.

In front, don't let my iron strand keep me from you. Don't let me entertain offense, the crimson scratchings on white paper. My own decree at the expense of needing you- it shreds and burns. Behind, don't let my rags and scars construct a fence to keep you out, a grid of despair and doubt- it strips and bars. Protect me from both.

And when I'm at the end of me and finally find I'm free, the stormy sea won't stop its surge. The blackened dirt and fleas. Blowing, blinding, biting, burying. Begging. A rage I can't defeat. Two wood beams have weathered worse, and this my shining silver key. Lord, accept my undeserved plea- unclench my fists, though I resist, and sweep my storm beneath your feet.

You are enough and always will be, I only need to see.

[Inspired by Timothy Keller’s book, Prayer: Awe and Intimacy with God]