Dear God, I can’t pray to you. It wouldn’t be right. You listen to the prayers of your loyal people. Those whom you love. Those who listen to you. You want me to be good, you wanted me to act like your child, and I haven’t. You want me to honor you in thought words and deed, but my faith is not strong enough. You want me to love you above all things. I don’t. I don’t want to. And I’m not interested in making a change anytime soon. So I understand, there is no reason why you should listen to me now.
But I don’t know what else to do. Who else do I talk to when I have the unspeakable suffocating my heart and mind. Who else is mighty enough to spin the tide of the world if it could to be done. Who else can soothe a bleeding soul, that no one else can see is dying.
There was a time that I might have been in good enough standing for you to listen. Maybe you could remember me from way back, the little girl who used to faithfully say her goodnight prayers. Maybe you have secretly seen a breakthrough moment of my worthiness, one or two of which I don’t know. There’s a chance what they say is true, that you know the inner thoughts of everyone. So, my plea may not be such a surprise to you.
But my prayer is disgusting and meager. The very nature of my prayer is not of faithful repentance or mercy. It’s not for the daily bread which I don’t deserve or for the forgiveness of sins which I am too bold to believe. It’s not to keep the name of God holy or save me from the evil one. I am sure I deserve nothing of what you have promised to give. I will not be surprised by the depths of hell as my just and proper end. I have chosen poorly in my lifetime, this is true.
My prayer is not a passionate prayer that will test your strength and power. You don’t have to prepare a place in a mansion for me or make everything in my life seem alright. I don’t want a showy relationship with you to brag about to my friends and enemies. You don’t have to give me the things I want, a longer life, or even dry my daily tears. I don’t have any faith in my faith, my unbelief has become greater than I can bear.
My good fruit is withering and disappearing. My joy is turning to sadness. Threats of eternal burning and starvation don’t scare me as it should. Guilt for my wayward life doesn’t cause me to radically amend my ways. Death is not the end I constantly fear. If these should be the touchpoints of a faith that believes, I guess, I fear that you have left me all alone.
Yet, unrighteously I trust that I am marked with the identity of your long-lost child. Undeservingly I still lift up my cracked voice to eternal ears that should not listen. Unfairly I imagine myself whispering in the chorus of a great cloud of witnesses, crying wailing screaming: How long. The words of this prayer, you probably will not hear, and I probably should not pray. But then again, these might be the only words I can say.
Dear God, just don’t forget about me. I am not anything good, and I can’t ask for what I should. Someone Else Greater has prayed for me what you wanted to hear. And He said that you’ll always remember me.