Forgiveness--a prayer

This is me. The real me. The me that I don't want other people to see. But God sees it all--and He's the one who gives hope to the hopeless! I had "journaled" this in my computer at some point over the past months. Perhaps my prayer echoes in other hearts.

What does forgiveness mean to me? Have I experienced it? Yes. Do I really understand it?...Do I? Is it conditional? Is it deserved? Does it expect anything in return? Do I qualify? Can I qualify? Have I blown it? Can I blow it? What is forgiveness?...wiping, cleansing, cleaning, purifying. Hum…that last word seems too quaint for today. I have so little point of reference for “purification.” But, cleansing, sanitizing, qualifying, a clean record. I do know those terms. I know how a clean bath refreshes a worn out body. I know how a person must qualify for top secret clearance—they have to check off on everything, and they can’t have a single thing wrong. I’ve never gotten a clearance. Well, I guess I have with teaching—a clean background check. But, what good does that do?

What I want is cleanness. I want…well, forgiveness. I’ve fallen. In fact, I was never that high up to fall from. But, right now I’m pretty low. I need something I don’t have—a clean record. And, I don’t want to flippantly come to God again and say, “Please forgive me.” Because I’ve done it so many times and then fallen right back into my old habits. I make a commitment. I give my word. I promise to succeed this time. And then, before more than a handful of days have passed, I am on the ground again. Stuck.

What I need is forgiveness. And help. God, I don’t want to come to You. I, honestly, foolishly dare to have enough pride to still think that I want to help myself. But, I can’t. I simply can’t do it. I can’t get control of my life, of my habits, of my sins. I simply am unable to pick myself up. So, because otherwise who would I turn to, I am back. I’m a prodigal daughter. I don’t have any merits to show for all my years. My resume is blank. If I were to pull out any trophies of my “own,” they’d be simply ones that you, my Father, bought for me. I didn’t win any of those games on my own to get those medals. Any of the trophies sitting on my shelf are ones you won for me. I fell down on the field. You picked me up. I didn’t even want to get up. I was ready to quit. But, you hoisted me up, steadied my feet, and then guided my limbs to score. That trophy…all those trophies are really yours.

What I’m asking for is another trophy. Another trophy to put on my shelf beside all the others. Another trophy that I didn’t win. Another trophy that I can say was paid for by my Father. That’s what I am pleading for. I’m still that same reluctant sport. That lame, lazy, loser. But, you’re still the same Father. So, I come to you. Help me!