I woke up this morning and said a prayer.
Oh, it was disjointed and like one I would have spit out when I was five. You know, like you’re asking a genie for a something after rubbing a lamp.
“Give me a million dollars and a pony.” Or something like that.
I listened for an answer and only heard the clock ticking in the bathroom.
I’ve always envied Moses. Not about the wandering around in the desert part, no, I envy he had a direct line to God via a burning bush. I’ve never had a flaming gardenia that sounds like Morgan Freeman talking to me. (Wait, isn’t envy a sin? Durn.) But I do firmly believe that God answers prayers. Just not how I want them answered. I’m usually forced to do the work.
TICK TICK TICK TICK TICK TICK
The Good Lord usually (and yes, I do subscribe to the theology of Garth Brooks and unanswered prayers, too) gives me opportunities to work towards what I’m asking for. And the even Greater Lord sends people into my life to help me find a path forward.
Angels come dressed in funny clothes sometimes.
I won’t lie to you. The last year has kind of kicked my butt. But I think that butt kicking has helped me realize I need to make some changes. It’s time to see the world differently. It’s time to pull my head out of my navel (or other hole) and look outward.
TICK TICK TICK TICK TICK TICK
I once again heard the clock ticking.
Time is slipping through my fingers; It’s time for urgency. It’s time to live and love to the fullest. The time is now.
And that’s when I figured it out:
The clock was my burning bush.