quiet me free
still me to see
with clear eyes
there is freedom
in peace

There are days I wake up with a mind that doesn’t seem to grasp the meaning of rest.
Or still.
Or peace.

And so I pray.
Or I try to pray.

I take a few deep breaths.

I let the silence meet me where I am.

I picture the light breaking through the darkness.

I don’t know why, but that’s what I picture.

It’s holy and peaceful and promising.

I guess that’s why.

I invite my head to unfold like my hands and hand it all over.
To no longer carry what my mind has gripped with anxiousness and over-thinking and all the other things that seek to pull me from where I need to be.

My morning prayers are groggy thoughts seeking a foundation; a place to stand tall in the confidence of a forever hope.

It’s almost as if I’m running towards His outstretched hands desperately trying to grasp a peace that passes all of my understanding, yet perfectly meets me where I am.

It perfectly meets me where I am.

My prayers aren’t poetic or perfect, but they don’t need to be.

And when I say amen, I know then, and only then, can I begin.

It begins with amen.

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