white knuckles.

We hold our hands out in front of us.
One is holding our lives.. gripped, tight, knuckles turning white.
The other reaching out to grasp for things that would seemingly make our lives full.
We add them to the gripped hand, scared each moment upon its opening, that something we worked so hard to get will seep through to be lost.
This job, that house, that man, this dream, that goal, acceptance from this person.
Searching for worthiness and an escape from our many falters.
All this gripping, fighting, seeking has still left us empty.
We knew it would. God, did we ever.
 It didn't stop us from fondling the world for something that would make us feel alive.
We want something more...
we were made for it.

There is this story we are made to be a part of.
It requires a beautiful letting go.
Our focus becomes singlemindely focused on a higher power, your kingdom father, It requires us to hold our own life, loosely, in our hands.
This time all the things inside are jumbled, not in the way we put them in, they swarm in the containment, fluttering in a beautiful mess. We are in awe of you and forget to care.
We aren't reaching out any longer, ONLY UP, and suddenly all the things we groan for, out of needing, appear in the hand that holds our life.
Father God, we fear missing out on what you have for us, but if we are writhing for you, how could we miss it?
Keep us hungry.
Kill our complacency.
Let us make roots in you so our branches can reach further.

We don't want a life we made, we want one that you breathed.