A prayer out-loud
Dear You,
The Youest of Yous. The dancing One, the Singing in my blood, the One who moves and breathes and loves me always.
So here we are again, we've been here before. I have a theory that You bring me here on purpose. Is it true?
Because this circle comes around again and again, and now I am at the start, where I'm kicking like a baby, resisting change with all of my might.
We box. You block all of my punches and never hit back.
I run to You, then pull away because I am more than a little upset. Why are You always bringing me to my limits? It doesn't feel fair.
Every day lately I wake up with what feels like a fat furry cat sitting on my chest. It's heavy and I can't breathe and there's that stupid cat dander that makes my eyes itch. I struggle to get out of bed because this cat feels like fear. Where is the fear from? Why is it heavy on me? Whose cat is this, anyways?
I remember the pattern from the past. You remind me, most excellent of friends, when I take the time to listen. You say, "We'll get through this." You say, "We'll be a little closer, my love." You say, "You'll drop a few more of those ideas of yours, the ones about your self-sufficiency, your big plans for yourself, your need to be perfect, to keep it all together, to fix everything by your own small self." You say, "Lean into it, don't push away." You say, "There are greener things than you can imagine, sweeter smelling days than you've ever known. Just wait. Just wait."
But I feel alone and the fear is ever-present and I'm not sure why I have to do this again. Remind me?
I know there is a changing. There is the kicking and the pushing and then slowly my resistance fades, I go limp, I fall in, and then I learn contentment again. It has been this way so many times before. All the places I have been, the homes I have lived in, all the deserts, all the valleys. Even on the peaks. It is the newness I resist, the loss of what has been. It is the small etchings I have carved into the wood in places all around me, reminding me of who I am, of what my name is. Leaving these things brings a tearing that I don't think I could have imagined.
Now I have only You to remind me. You and the faces of my family. It is enough.
And after the tearing comes a divine healing and Your hands surround me and I have obeyed and You have promised. And there are new things, there are sweet things and the ocean will fold over me and not throw me, it will rock me like a child. It is better than before, it is larger and more spacious than clinging to the old ways. You lead me into ever opening rooms.
It is good that we will have a long time together, my Friend. One day I will look back on all of this and say, "You told me so." So just, please, help me now, when I am still blind and foolish and inwardly about two years old.
All my love. You know You have my heart.
Rae
The Youest of Yous. The dancing One, the Singing in my blood, the One who moves and breathes and loves me always.
So here we are again, we've been here before. I have a theory that You bring me here on purpose. Is it true?
Because this circle comes around again and again, and now I am at the start, where I'm kicking like a baby, resisting change with all of my might.
We box. You block all of my punches and never hit back.
I run to You, then pull away because I am more than a little upset. Why are You always bringing me to my limits? It doesn't feel fair.
Every day lately I wake up with what feels like a fat furry cat sitting on my chest. It's heavy and I can't breathe and there's that stupid cat dander that makes my eyes itch. I struggle to get out of bed because this cat feels like fear. Where is the fear from? Why is it heavy on me? Whose cat is this, anyways?
I remember the pattern from the past. You remind me, most excellent of friends, when I take the time to listen. You say, "We'll get through this." You say, "We'll be a little closer, my love." You say, "You'll drop a few more of those ideas of yours, the ones about your self-sufficiency, your big plans for yourself, your need to be perfect, to keep it all together, to fix everything by your own small self." You say, "Lean into it, don't push away." You say, "There are greener things than you can imagine, sweeter smelling days than you've ever known. Just wait. Just wait."
But I feel alone and the fear is ever-present and I'm not sure why I have to do this again. Remind me?
I know there is a changing. There is the kicking and the pushing and then slowly my resistance fades, I go limp, I fall in, and then I learn contentment again. It has been this way so many times before. All the places I have been, the homes I have lived in, all the deserts, all the valleys. Even on the peaks. It is the newness I resist, the loss of what has been. It is the small etchings I have carved into the wood in places all around me, reminding me of who I am, of what my name is. Leaving these things brings a tearing that I don't think I could have imagined.
Now I have only You to remind me. You and the faces of my family. It is enough.
And after the tearing comes a divine healing and Your hands surround me and I have obeyed and You have promised. And there are new things, there are sweet things and the ocean will fold over me and not throw me, it will rock me like a child. It is better than before, it is larger and more spacious than clinging to the old ways. You lead me into ever opening rooms.
It is good that we will have a long time together, my Friend. One day I will look back on all of this and say, "You told me so." So just, please, help me now, when I am still blind and foolish and inwardly about two years old.
All my love. You know You have my heart.
Rae