Thursday, March 10, 2011

My Life is a Prayer

It sounds very spiritual until you look beyond the title.

Yesterday, I had my first day of on-the-job training. Today is a day off and I’m back at it again tomorrow. The dog decided that waking me up, whining, at 1:30 a.m. was a good idea. It wasn’t. Just to clarify, the dog was whining, not me. I reserved that for 5:30 a.m. when she woke me again. Of course, me whining at the dog is not nearly as effective as the dog whining at me.

After the skunk incident a few days ago, I am much more hesitant to go outside. I’m embarrassed at the level of fear it generates. The idea of surprising the stinker and becoming its victim is quite the anxiety inducer. Had it only been a skunk spotting, I would not bother me quite so much, but the aggressive actions by the striped fiend still feel threatening. I think rationally it is ludicrous to feel this way. I pray about my anxiety level.

I let the dog out without incident, then feed her and go back to bed. When my husband wakes me a half hour later to drive him to work, I am not as benevolent as in previous days, especially walking past our second car under its custom cover in the garage. The car he only takes out in the summer when the roads and sky are both completely clear. I pray to confess my resentment.

Riding as a passenger is always an exercise in steeling myself against the rapid lane changes, stop and go acceleration and speed fluctuations. I pray for protection, shut my eyes and focus inward. The song that has been playing in the background of my sub-conscious bubbles to the surface: “Oh how I need you Lord. I need your perfect word. With tearful eyes I see the sin that I afford. I need to weep and pray for all the thousand ways that I have failed you just today.” (1)

Yet God is faithful. My weakness, whining and lack of faith does not cause him to draw back  or withdraw his grace.

Yes, my life is a prayer. I’m desperate for Him.

And to those who say, “Oh, your Christianity is just a crutch,” I say, no. It’s much, much more. I don’t just need temporary support or a little help. If God did not completely carry me, I would have checked out long ago. If Jesus had not died in my place, I would already have been dead. Were it not for faith (which he gives me) in his strength (which he gives me) I would be a raving lunatic.

So, yes. My life is a prayer. A desperate plea for help. A confession of my own weakness. A bare-faced, weak-winged soul-cry that knows its only hope is in Jehovah-Rapha, the God who heals; Jehovah-Jireh, the God who provides; EL-ROI, the strong one who sees. (2)

He sees me, he hears me, he answers, he saves.

My life is a prayer.
He is the answer.
He is grace.
He is love.
A gift.


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