This prayer is difficult because I don't want to be as angry or as anxious as I am. It feels like a badge of honor in America to tell others how busy one is or how much stuff one has on their plate, but I don't want to tell you that. I want to tell you that I'm happy; I want to tell you that the prayers I've said so many times have actually worked; I want to tell you that I finally understand your grand intent.
But the truth? After 30 years of longing, I still don't feel whole. I still am asking "why?"
God, I work so hard. I worry so hard, too. Why does every progress I strive for feel so incremental? Why is every part of my journey so difficult, filled with so many hills, so many valleys? Why do I have to stretch as much as I do?
I didn't ask for this. I didn't ask for this body, or this skin, or this mind. I didn't ask for these feelings. Yet they're all my crosses to bear, gifts to unwrap, layer by layer. It seems like an unjust burden to have to deal with the trauma of simply existing – forgive me for having the audacity to also attempt to thrive. Why does it feel like a special request to deeply enjoy life? Why does it feel like an undeserving miracle to be loved fully? My requests seem so simple, even essential.
I'm told to hold on, to grin and bear, to remember Job. I've memorized songs my ancestors sung; I know how to bend and moan. I know what wading in the water feels like. But patience is a weight I'm tired of holding up. My life has been so accommodating. I don't want to accommodate at the expense of myself anymore.
I don't want to romanticize any part of this struggle, eitherー I want it to go away. I want to know that the world you've plopped me in was intended for me, in the fullness of how and what you've created me to be.
Are all of these things too much to ask for?