Powerless

I remember the days, and not so long ago, when I believed that I could exert enough energy through my anger and sense of injustice to remedy any situation that posed a threat to my loved ones. Foolishness. Folly. Of my ownself I have no power at all. I am impotent. Though I may yearn to be the harbinger of justice I am, in truth, able to identify injustice, hate injustice, experience the angst of watching life bring its' tough lessons to those I love and that is all I can hope to accomplish. I can pray. Of course that is not a trivial response although in the middle of my own suffering praying sounds a silly choice meant for those who cannot make the grade. Shocking to admit my response to prayer when I find myself in the thick of formulating multiple solutions to multiple problems. Yes! Yes! I will pray at some point but I do not have time at the moment. I must worry. I must despair. I must conjure up the old and unfaithful sense of righteousness I have created time after time. Lonely, defeated, broken against the futility of imitating the Giver of Life, I surrender. Not well. Not wholeheartedly. Grudgingly is a better word for my first steps towards my redemption. Even that frame of mind, that arrogant sense of defeated self, as it comes in an act of surrender, experiences release, relief and freedom. Exhausted by my attempts to lift the weight of heavy burdens; I surrender. I am powerless. I am in need of rescue. I am not the rescuer. A child-like sense of  love enfolding me with tenderness replaces my false bravado. I am home again. My Father is in charge.