Dear God,

Thank you for morning, new colors bleeding into the sky, into my eyes. The days die and die again, but always, there is new life. (And) though I die a thousand times, I discover suddenly my lungs filled up with breath. My spirit wallowing in dust, You dress me in bone and flesh and sing over me until my heart is beating again.

I despise words, how they cannot describe these miracles: (such as) the way sorrow and smiles can spring simultaneously in the soul--it is a paradox, but both can be honest. Emotions, thoughts, contradictory, coexisting. And I want to fully explain where they flow from, for them, (for me). I want to understand (myself?), but I am at a loss.

Abba, what am I saying? Do You hear Your daughter when I am nonsensical? Can Your Spirit interpret what I cannot?

I know the answers to these questions. But I like to hear You tell me. It reminds me that You are listening. Maybe it's just between You and me today, Daddy. A secret, and I catch glimpses, but never quite reach its end (sometimes I spend hours spinning deep into frustration, in my attempts to unravel). Still. You are making me new, just like the morning. A shapeless smear of colors, but, oh--how the light breaks through beautifully.