Only prayer brings me any.
Sometimes I am very close to not wanting it to anymore. I'm tired of feeling alone in my life and of believing I always will be.
Even reading brings me no comfort. Fabulous tales of distant lands intended to teach of the greater people we can be in Christ instead accuse me and then remind me by contrast of my unloved, bastardly roots.
Yet comes, unbidden, the ancient psalm that has carried my unwilling, despairing soul through its very darkest days:
I lift up my eyes to the hills.
From whence shall come my help?
My help comes from the Lordwho made heaven and earth - Ps 121, 1-2
Oh Lord, nobody knows me but you. Hasten to my aid.
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