One of my hopes for this year was to return to places and habits that had become lost in the shuffle, neglected, or simply pushed off for the sake of other things. Therefore, a prayer for Friday returns. 

Lord, you say that nothing is impossible with you.

I believe that.

But I’m impossible with you.

 

I push my will, in toddler-esque fashion.

I do it often.

Pounding soft fists on rough stone.

 

But you aren’t rough, not at all.

It’s in my head.

I don’t see the love behind the stone.

 

I don’t see that your will looks like pain

But the taste

It tastes like hope soaked in honey twice over.

 

Nothing is impossible with you, agreed.

I believe that.

Help my unbelief when I become impossible myself.

Let it be.

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