I wrote this prayer several weeks ago, but worship tonight encouraged me to share. I'm working on a book, which is referenced at the end of the prayer:I sit here sober, somber, coherent, yet unclear.
Lord, clear my head. I feel led to write. Writing is me, yet to write about me would be to write pure. What is pure writing? Is it this meandering dribble across the page?
Writing my heart is most difficult as my heart is torn. How do I write torn words?
My p en i s shr edd ed t o pie ces! Th e dif ficu lty in rea din g to rn w ords does n't com pare to wr it ing t hem!
My ink should pull everything together and take the reader on a ride. Be active! Be active! Awaken! Be Alive!
My pen breathes heavy, jotting my thoughts in shortness of breath. The heart of the words longs for 26 miles while the brain struggles with 385 yards.
Is this my ministry, God? To write and dream, inviting others into my head. My head was something I avoided unless aided by whiskey or hooch. Now, in my sober years, I journey through, intimidated by the corners, the nooks, the cobwebs and the dust.
Lord, why? What? You do such beautiful things with dust--the sunset, movement of water across the world, angels dancing upon a Sunday morning sunbeam through the front window, gardens and forests, Adam and Eve.
What is in my dust? What lie-giving rain do I carry? What sandals are imbedded in my soul? Am I a sunrise? Am I dancing in your light? Am I simply a mud pie hoping to be a cake?
Lord, God, be with me, please, as I kick up my dirt, hoping to feel! I grope for you, for the Spirit within to lead my steps. Guide my prayers, guide my thoughts, hold me tight.
Jesus, I love you no matter what. I want to bring glory to Your name!
Calm my anxious heart and restless hand. God, please give me rest and time to recover from the strife of the day--of any day that I fail to work on Frank as I should.
God, I love You, Good night!
 |
| Two of my children with the backdrop of God's beautiful work with dust in the sunset on a farm. |
