I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know what to do but the words formed at my lips, pressed from my mouth before I could grab hold of them:
Can I pray for you?
But…I don’t…I can’t…I…
I am empty of jargon and oft-quoted phrases and trite expressions.
I am silenced. I’ve offered prayers that I cannot utter.
This moment of collision—my empty faith, my thankless heart, this broken world, His hurting people.
My mouth is dry, my throat is tight. I choke out His name.
One who spoke stars and filled seas and sculpted Adam and fashioned Eve and forsook True Son. Maker of worlds and heaven and these clammy hands and this brain knocking about for words. One who cradles close and promises peace.
My voice is quiet and slow. Each word drags heavy and pulls tight.
I’m clawing at Your goodness and struggling to pull it close, to make it real, find it tangible. I’m drawing near, this time not just to Your promises, but because of them.
I’m asking and seeking and knocking. I’m drawing near. I’m offering up these bumbling words and broken heart as an invitation, as a desperate plea.
And another collision— the Giver of good and perfect gifts, my restless heart, His peace.
“The sacrifice you desire is a broken spirit. You will not reject a broken and repentant heart, O God.” –Psalm 51:17