pray

The body of Christ is uplifted in my tragedy. When I hear stories about deaths, on the news or from word of mouth, my pain compels me to pray for the people affected by death. There is something so much more real about my prayers now, a reality that, if given the choice, I would gladly trade for the surface prayers of old, prayers for random people that I only uttered to make myself feel better. Now the splinter in my soul irritates my heart to the point where it hurts more to not pray. I say this as a reluctant child of God whose understanding of Sovereignty is becoming more and more illuminated as the days pass on, and as one who, in the face of Glory, can do nothing but bow.

I don't do high socks.

I just don't.

Maybe I am trying to fit myself into a mold, one that I feel is right, one that would make my parents proud.
My parent proud.

I see the brochures, the pamphlets, the minimum requirements, all of the things that I need to do before I am granted entrance into another world.

I see it and I buckle under the fear that I am not as qualified as I like to think.
That all of the things that I have been building up for the past 4 years were for naught.

Was I using Legos while everyone else was using bricks?
Have the things that I have invested in been not as lucrative and therefore not as meaningful?

Is it futile to even think about looking for a do-over?

I don't know.

I don't know what I want to do with my life.

I don't know if I want to be a scientist.
I don't know if I want to be a writer.
I don't know if I want to be a minister.
I don't know if I want to be a sister.
A lover.
A friend.

But there are a few things that I do know, and I guess that that is all that I have to work with right now.

And I know that I do not do high socks.

So

Here it is. Wish me luck.