I stopped praying. 

In the beginning, I prayed. 

I prayed for strength and courage. I prayed for forgiveness, for me and them. I prayed for my children. I prayed for Him to use me for His plan not mine. I prayed for the purpose in the pain. I prayed for him and her. I prayed for the broken world my children are growing up in. I prayed for hope and the dwindling light inside of me. I prayed for my writing and sharing Him and His love with others. I prayed for guidance and wisdom. I prayed for Him to show me the way. The way to Him. I prayed for love. I prayed for kindness and compassion. I prayed for acceptance and understanding. I prayed in gratitude. I prayed in sorrow. I prayed and I prayed. 

I didn’t even realize it was happening. 

Slowly my constant prayers became less.

A few months ago, my prayers were only of thanksgiving and the day He has given me. Every morning the first words on my lips were of praise of Him. 

Somehow in some way, I stopped. 

And I can feel it in my soul. 

I am struggling more with anger and forgiveness. I stumble over gratitude. I feel lost and confused in what I am doing. With my writing. With my motherhood journey. With my life. 

In the past three years, God was the first person I turned to. In my joy. In my despair. In my happiness. In my tears. My friend in whom my soul trusted. And in the midst of all that has transpired lately, I lost my friend. I feel betrayed. I feel as though He has forsaken me. As Jesus did on the cross. Left me. Alone in this world. Yet His Son knew what was to come. The glory in the rising. 

I don’t know. I used to pray for the unknown. 

And somehow in some way, I stopped. 

The pain that is radiating inside of me is deep. For I know that this is all on me. For not believing in Him enough. For not trusting Him enough. For not being more like Him and His son. For not loving Him enough. For allowing all of the pain and suffering to make me believe He has abandoned me. 

I have lost so much in this separation and divorce. So much. My husband. My family. My future. My stay-at-home motherhood journey. My dream. My friend. My partner. My home. My trust. My time with my children. My perfectionism. My fear. My willingness to please. My view on my life and this world we live in. 

And now, it seems, a bit of my faith. 

I have hinted here and there of these feelings. Wondering how I get back to where I was. Seeking advice on what to do to change my mind. Knowing that it is all up to me to rekindle the relationship. 

But somehow in someway, I stopped. 

Sunday night, I was walking up the stairs feeling the weight of more than just the laundry in my arms. Entering my room, a new song started playing. Hit with emotions, the tears came. Quickly turning to sobs. I fell to my knees at the side of my bed. To pray. 

Nothing. 

I couldn’t pray. I couldn’t speak all the words of anger and hatred and bitterness and sadness and loneliness and hurt that is brewing in my heart. I couldn’t ask Him why. Why is this happening again? I couldn’t ask Him when will it be my turn? I couldn’t ask for guidance or wisdom. I couldn’t ask for forgiveness. I couldn’t ask for His presence in that moment. I couldn’t ask for courage and strength. I couldn’t ask Him for patience in His timing. I couldn’t do any thing.

But cry. 

As the tears calmed, three words escaped my lips. 

Lord, help me. 

Lord, help me. Lord, help me. Lord, help me. 

Over. And over. And over. 

Again. And again. And again. 

I haven’t moved past these three words yet. Days later. I am still chanting them. 

Lord. 

Help me.

Somehow in some way, I started to pray.