I am pissed.
I know, I know, I’m supposed to be bigger than that. But I have a child’s heart that thinks it knows what fairness is, and I have concluded that things are not fair.
I thought we had some sort of agreement. I thought that when I decided to devote my life to loving you, to creating beauty, to trying to heal the world, that things would work out for me. I don’t think I realized this until just this week: I thought I deserved better than what I’m getting.
Because what I have gotten lately is crap. My intestines are all janky.My arms are itchy. My life is all transitions and uncertainty and missing people and up until now it only made me anxious and sad. Now it makes me angry.
Is it true that an angry prayer is better than no prayer at all? I have decided to cast my lot with you, God of life, and I’m sticking it out because that’s what people like me do. Somewhere inside of me, in that small, hidden place where this anger used to be, lies my conviction that you make all things new, and that your grace allows us to find new life in darkness.
There is still a kernel of trust, because I believe that the via dolorosa may lead us to the joy of Easter. It’s hard for me to even imagine what that Easter joy could look like, and I am too exhausted to try. But I know that’s how the story ends and so I pray for surprises, that you may blindside me with Life. Soon.