I Am Done
Sunday morning, and there’s no ache or rush to get to church. No frenzied showers, coffee drinking, sleepy and resentful children dragged from bed.
One year ago I gave up on prayer.
The simple souls who break my heart tell you that God hears all prayers, and answers them according to His plan. (We Anglicans have issues with Predestination and life travel plans.) Last year my heart broke over and over with God, like a teenager with a thwarted crush.
Help me, help me, I begged Him. Please tell me what to do. I need you. Send help, send me a lifeline. Tell me what I’m doing wrong. All prayers offered up to silence.
When I was a little girl, missing out on a father and close family, I begged Him often to love me. So lonely and unanswered. Couldn’t figure out what I’d done to miss out on what others had. Loved Him so much, but just like my real father, He stayed aloof and unresponsive.
So now it’s 2013. The love for Him stays unrequited, and like a rejected lover I accept my situation finally. Pray for me, friends ask, but my once undimming power that once could generate them has died. God does not want me or my prayers, so I can only offer sympathy and a hand to hold. You do want my prayers, dried husks, whithered hope.
These things are real to me: love, sympathy, companionship, hope, family, friendship, trials, suffering, illness, death. Humankind. God does not love or want me, and I am done.