Here I go again, Lord.
Knocking down my own house.
Here I go again, like an over-tired-two-year-old,
fit-pitching …and, on the way to church.
I pray to you Lord; oh, help me.
Anger swells, about to burst,
And still I just get worse.
I rose early and hid in the closet with You;
tears and prayers helped build this home.
Your kingdom come. Your will be done.
And I meant it.
But then my kingdom doesn’t come, and
my will is not done, and I …
I make my babies cry.
Oh my. Disappointed sigh. My, my, my.
Like a wrecking ball around my porcelain dolls,
and a dripping faucet, I am sure.
Mommy needs a time-out.
Would she like to yell and scream?
Would she like to break something?
Is this getting old yet? Is she gonna ever learn to trust?
Can she ever learn to keep it shut?
What needs to change in my heart?
Because I can’t just shove this stuff down. It’s too strong.
Haven’t you given me self-control? Why don’t I know how to use it?
Where is your Spirit walking? And why am I out of step?
My husband knocked down, the safety net destroyed, my children cry-
Mommy, its okay. It’s okay, Mommy.
Mommy, please stop this. I hate this.
Even the vanity plate in front of our car tells, “It is well.”
Two words fall down with the rubble.
I’m sorry. So sorry.
Three more powerful words follow: