A Lament of Sorts…

I don’t know how to start this without sounding ungrateful.

So maybe I won’t try.

Today the kids are sick.

I’m worried we might have to postpone surgery.

And I am so tired of bracing for impact.

I don’t even want to explain the surgery. I don’t want to narrate the medical details.

I just want one season where I am not holding my breath.

This whole stretch of life feels like one long inhale that never turns into an exhale.

I worry about what has already been done.

The damage I can’t quantify.

The things said over them.

The tension they have absorbed.

The ways children learn to shrink in rooms where they should feel safe.

I worry about their bodies.

Their brains.

Their futures.

Their therapy bills.

Their teacher meetings.

Their medications.

Their transitions.

Their heartbreaks.

I worry about one kid stepping into themself as a young adult and the world responding in ways that are cruel.

I worry about another kid‘s nervous system and whether anyone sees how hard they are trying.

I worry about another kid‘S health and what’s growing where it shouldn’t be growing.

I worry about things I can name and things I can’t.

And tonight I tried to pray.

Not the pretty kind.

Not the “God is good all the time” kind.

Just the kind where I sat on the edge of my bed and said:

Are You literally even listening?

Because if You are - I don’t understand this.

I don’t understand why protection feels so inconsistent.

Why healing is so slow.

Why some people seem to cause harm and keep moving through life untouched.

Why children carry consequences they didn’t create.

I don’t have a worship song in me tonight.

I have anger.

Not explosive anger.

Not blasphemous theatrics.

Just the quiet, steady kind that says: This isn’t fair.

I was taught that prayer is supposed to sound respectful.

Measured.

Full of praise before requests.

Gratitude before grief.

But what if all I have is grief?

What if the holiest thing I can offer is honesty?

Because here is the honest thing: Some days I don’t know what I think about prayer. Some days I don’t know what I think about You.

I don’t know if You intervene.

I don’t know if You’re silent on purpose.

I don’t know if this is refinement or randomness.

I just know I am tired of being strong.

I am tired of being the safe place.

The regulated nervous system.

The advocate.

The calm one in meetings.

The one who writes the emails.

The one who researches the specialists.

The one who absorbs the tone.

The one who steadies the room.

I am tired of holding it together so my children don’t fall apart.

And if You are real -

if You are good -

if You are near -

then You can handle that sentence.

You can handle my doubt.

You can handle my frustration.

You can handle the version of me that isn’t performing faith.

Because I am not bargaining tonight.

I am not promising anything.

I am not offering spiritual productivity.

I am just saying: I need help.

Not vague help.

Not character-building help.

Not “this will make sense later” help.

I need You to protect what I cannot see.

I need You to repair what I cannot reach.

I need You to stand in rooms I am not in.

I need You to hold my children’s hearts in ways I physically cannot.

And if You are listening -

if You actually lean toward the sound of women whispering prayers into the dark - then hear this:

I am scared.

I am overwhelmed.

I am stretched thin.

I am angry.

I am still here.

And the only reason I am still talking to You at all is because some stubborn part of me believes You would rather hear the ugly truth than a polished lie.

So this is what You get.

No performance.

No theology lesson.

No bow on top.

Just a Mama,

in the dark,

asking if anyone is listening.