On the days when my gaze strays like some lusty peeping Tom into the windows of what she’s doing, teaching, speaking, attending, making, baking, loving, learning, writing, creating.
When I start to compare her blog or platform or waistband or well-behaved kids or the size of her darling upper arms.
Father wrap yourself around me and raise my eyes to the milky way – so vast and immeasurable – a God of limitless resources.
Protect me from the myth of scarcity that screams I must be noticed, invited, included, appreciated or I. will. vanish.
Tilt my chin away from my navel gazing and lift my eyes to the hills, the mighty art of the stars, the puffs of clouds that bloom in blue skies.
Lord I bring you this prayer for contentment cupped in two hands that have tightly fisted frustration for days at what they think they’re missing out on.
The illusive grass so bright green there on the other side of the Twitter screen I can almost smell it.
It makes me gag and swallow great gulps of greedy wanting what I don’t have.
Rescue me from this mirage. Stop me before I drink a desert of disillusionment.
Desperation to be included tastes hollow going down. My belly aching for the Bread of Life.
Life to the full. I want it with both hands. A life line that keeps slipping through my ridiculous grasp. Grab my hand Father before I slip and slide my way to the bottom of a pit so black I can’t see my hand in front of my red and foolish face.
Rescue me from myself.
Cradle me to your side just like the night you did when you walked into the darkness and offered your own self as ransom for all I’m not satisfied with.
Remind me how you let go your only Son to grab hold of me, by the hair, the heart, the throat in a choke hold of grace.
Don’t. Let. Go.
No matter how I fight and whine and whinge and try to break free of all this love that names me unique. No matter how much I stamp my foot and demand to have a life, a house, a book, a ministry like she does.
Do. Not. Believe. Me.
Dear God, don’t unwrap your fingers from this fool’s unfaithful heart.
Name me yours today and tomorrow and then again the next day. Let your voice ring in my ears until it’s the song stuck on repeat on my Mondays. Till my weeks reek of The Freedom of Self Forgetfulness.
Grow me up into the childish faith of a three-year-old who believes she’s beautiful and valuable and necessary simply because her mother tells her so.
Mother me, Jesus.
Help me believe all the shockingly beautiful things you say about me.
That the verdict’s already in long before I began – how you’ve named me wanted and chosen and adopted. Cherished, beloved, delicious with these wide eyes and my mother’s crooked smile.
Invited into your Kingdom work.
Here in my kitchen and there on that stage.
Both the same as what a mother’s up to at 2am with her sick babe and heaven only sees the bended knee not the stats or traffic or audience or likes or rankings.
Heaven only sees the bended knee.
Burn it into my memory, how to bend my knee and serve. And in so doing find every grand and grasping dream I have flirted with reduced to dust and replaced by gifts of epic, disproportionate grace.
I unwrap fresh mercy every morning and most days I barely recognize it.
I believe Lord, help my unbelief.
Even when all that comes out is a whisper as you hold my hand.
And divinely wanted.