prayers

Some people go to church every single day. That is amazing to me. Their sinless souls cleansed each day by a whisper in a darkened confession booth. Their faith, their connection so tightly knit, in the mind of this devoted disciple, is there any doubt that surely heaven, or or some peace like it, awaits their departure from this mortal coil?

There is no confession booth waiting to cleanse me. My sin rests in my own hands. My church is my canvas. My prayers are my brush strokes, my chosen colors outline my confessions and my tears are the drips on heavily stained alters. I confess that I have not been to church in many days and the weight of it is so heavy that it alters all types of normal activity. I feel closeted, chaotic, unavailable even to my own self. So far removed do I feel, that I wonder if my church will even remember my name, hear my confessions or allow me to pray? So, in a humble moment of genuflection i pick up the brush i left drying for too many days, stand in front of my canvas and try to find the place on the path where I stopped praying. There is a silent verse waiting to be recited and, if i allow it, a voice, maybe some prayer from a distant part of me, will be heard. and answered.