A plea that breaks pride

My writing muscles are stiff. Funny how quickly you lose the flow of words when practice pauses.

Force myself. Don't stop. Just like I learned in elementary school from the creative writing book I begged my mom to buy. Keep going. Ten minutes. Whatever comes to your head. Edit later. Words in print. That's the point. Force the flow.

Words from Lenten devotion persevere in my prayers through the weekend. Wonderful weekend with my parents. But a weekend full of hard discussion about aging grandparents. Decision to be made that can't be. Hard weeks of waiting and guessing and mostly recognizing how little control we have.

Help me God. Lord, hurry to my rescue. Psalm 70:1

Since I read it Friday, "help me God" seems to be every prayer. It's not just my cry when I look at hard stuff. Even more it's my cry when I look at controlled stuff. Because control is just another way to say pride. Thinking I have this covered without help from anyone else, thank you very much. God, You can now tackle the Middle East. My heart is so prideful. Ever the optimist in my own triumph and power.  My way is best.

Humility is our greatest weapon against Satan, sin and temptation. This plea gives me that weapon. Without it, I have no humility in me. Not one meek thought.

Help me God. Lord, hurry to my rescue. Psalm 70:1

He rescues me from me. My new creation from my enslaved old self. And He rescues every day. For as soon as he saves me from one disaster, I am running headlong into a new one. How grateful I am for a tireless father.

My mother called parenting toddlers relentless. Every day. Over and over. There is a bit of the eternal in motherhood.

But when I consider how relentless God is to pursue me and how relentless my sin, my position looks so temporal by comparison. And I find myself nodding thanks to my father, the Lord who is...

merciful and gracious, slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love. Psalm 103:8