Be still and know that He is God, but I’m afraid of the stillness, and it’s all on the outside, and He’s standing back and all I’m doing is kicking and fighting, tripping and falling. Mine is a dank, humid, smothering, sweltering, glowering stillness; the kind of quiet that spells disaster. I’m a tropical beach before a monsoon, the creatures pushed down and oppressed into a cowed silence, huddled in homes, just waiting for the cloudburst they know is coming. I’m a traffic jam in rush hour, all fumes and exhaust and frustration, not getting anywhere.

I need to be a forest, sunny and cool; leaves and pine needles and clear, carefree air. A harvested field in late July, a river in early summer, a winding rural highway at midday.

Take my noisy silence, Lord, my twisted turmoil, and turn it from useless torment to something good and wholesome, something you can use. Clear my cloud cover, straighten my crooked soul, teach me a new song to praise you. Train my heart to peace, my hands to love and spirit to gentleness.

Resurrected One, raise me from the dead.