A Prayer for Lent {Lent 2013}

So, I say to God as we lay in bed, my baby and I, nursing at ten minutes to midnight on the first of forty Lenten days.

I know you're not a vending machine - I don't put my two cent prayer in and get a candy bar nugget of truth right back, easy peasy. 

I know you're not like that. Nothing can be bought or earned with you. I get that. I get that that's part of the glory.

But I thought you value relationship. And here's the thing - when I talk to my husband, my treasure and trusted friends and family, it's not a one way conversation. It's a relationship, and the conversation flows between us.

I want it to be like that between you and I, God. I want to hear you. And feel you and taste you and see you. I want you to be my everything, and be everything to my husband and son.

But how can that be if we - I - can't hear you?

I want to hear you, Daddy.

And I don't.

It feels like I'm talking at a brick wall, inserting my two cent prayer into the cosmic vending machine and what comes back doesn't feel very nourishing.

Isn't it supposed to be better than this? Isn't your Presence supposed to be present?

I want more. I want more you. The real you.

Am I talking foolish? Do I know not what I say? I hope I'm not getting myself into hot water . . . but to be honest, the spiritual puddle I'm sitting in feels pretty lukewarm, so maybe a little heat is okay (I say, cringing, waiting for the lightning bolt).  But I want to be honest.

Where has my faith gone?

We need you, here in this house of brittle hearts. I need you.

I believe you hold each of us in the palm of your hand. But I wish I could feel the folds of your flesh tight around my bones.



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