Help Me

Sometimes it is a quiet offering in the car while you are driving your sleepless child around town with the small hope that her eyes will close for a second’s peace

Both hers and yours

Sometimes it is in earnest waiting in line at the grocery store when you know the items in your cart total more than what you’re fingering in your pocket

Sometimes it is a loud aching, both forceful and hollow

A breaking of spirit, a guttural moan from the depths of the whale you allowed to swallow you in order to avoid what God had called you to do

Sometimes it is a relenting-

Empty hands offered.

A resigned acceptance.

Sometimes it is the very pinnacle of joy.

The lifting of eyes up to the heavens.

Where does my help come from?

Sometimes it the anger that quakes from mouths unable to withhold their doubt.

To quell their fury.

It burns holes in throats and rips down cheeks in rivers of hot panic.

It is accusing.

You were never to Forsake me.

Sometimes it is the peace of letting go.

I am the Daughter.

The heir.

You are the breath.

The life.

It is the only prayer I have ever prayed.

It is the one I cling to today.

Help me.

Oh, God.

And He always has.

 

 

 

 

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