My friend told me to take it to prayer.

I told her I couldn’t.  I was tongue-tied.  I didn’t have anything to say to God that was good.  I only had bad thoughts, angry thoughts.  I didn’t want to share that with God.

My friend told me to take it all to prayer.

I told her I couldn’t.  I was searching for answers.  Trying to figure it out on my own before I gave it to God.  I wanted to see if I could handle it, and make myself more pleasing to God before I gave it to him.  I wasn’t ready for Him to see that side of me.  You know, the angry, raging self that I had become inside.

My friend told me to take it to prayer.  Take the good, the bad, and the ugly.  Shout at God.  Yell out my frustrations.

I told her I couldn’t.  I didn’t want to yell at God.  I wasn’t mad at Him.  I was mad at someone else.

My friend told me to take it to prayer.  Over time, God would heal my bitter, angry thoughts.  By voicing them to God, He would help me handle the situation.  He would help me find peace.  He would help me heal from the very deep wounds that had made a home in my soul.

I told her I would try.

Psalm 77:1-6 (The Message)

I yell out to my God, I yell with all my might,
I yell at the top of my lungs. He listens.

^2-6 I found myself in trouble and went looking for my Lord;
my life was an open wound that wouldn’t heal.
When friends said, “Everything will turn out all right,”
I didn’t believe a word they said.
I remember God—and shake my head.
I bow my head—then wring my hands.
I’m awake all night—not a wink of sleep;
I can’t even say what’s bothering me.
I go over the days one by one,
I ponder the years gone by.
I strum my lute all through the night,
wondering how to get my life together.