Pending Prayers.

"She knows omnipotence has heard her prayer and cries 'it shall be done—sometime, somewhere.'"

—Ophelia Guyon Browning

Hi. It’s me.

That never-ending, infinite abyss of the unknown.

So gross.

You know—those times when everyone you know offers these cliché platitudes that feel so empty in the moment, but fast-forward a few months or years and you’re like, damn, they were right.

Phrases like:

It will all work out in the end

and

God never gives you more than you can handle.

Those moments when you lean into the Serenity Prayer, like somehow it will unlock some secret compartment in your heart you weren’t aware of—or had forgotten about. Like opening a box that’s been packed since the move, and inside is exactly what you need but forgot you already had.

The nights when you wake up before the alarm for no reason but to worry.

Like in that book you are reading about the rosary, the author says worrying is its own kind of prayer. Not the hopeful kind—the repetitive kind. The kind with beads. Worry stones, those little worry dolls, something for your fingers to move over, again and again, as if repetition alone might change the outcome.

Yeah. So anyway, that’s where you are right now.

In me. That black hole of doubt and fear you just have to feel and live through.

Again:

Sorry—

not sorry.