Morning Prayer Journal   

      My heart is sick of the gods that raise their heads in my heart —  clamoring for time and attention.
     And I, so bedazzled by their noise and show and promise of satisfaction, hasten to give them room and board and honor.  Trying always, Lord Jesus, to keep you first, but finding out the crumbs that are left after feeding all these paltry gods are nothing fit for a King.
     Nothing satisfies for long, and my heart looks within and sees a once fine altar, ground there to sawdust, and weeps.
     All the excuses clang hollowly against the broken bell of liberty.  Where has my freedom gone?
     I say that life, particularly the losses of this last year, has changed me.  I never meant for it to be this way.  I hasten to say that  I’ve always wanted to be changed — by YOU, Heavenly Father, more and more into the image of your dear Son.  Instead, I find that the events of my life — which could have been used to make me more like you, have made me numb instead.  So numb that I almost cannot hear your voice.  So numb, I hardly know who I am. 
     And in that numbness, the mini gods of food and self-pity and sleep and Xanga have stormed the gates of my heart.  And WON.  Oh, Lord Jesus, they’ve won. 
     They have marched in with their foot soldiers of greed and laziness and impatience and indifference and jealousy and suspicion and a deep sadness and they’ve set up their camp and mapped out their strategy and they’ve commandeered my heart.
     . . .  And because of the grief also tabernacled there, I’ve had neither energy or will to fight.
     I cannot just blame the grief, Dear Father.  I’ve made wrong choices, too, given over strongholds without resisting, watching quietly while battles were lost.
     I confess there are situations that I don’t know what to do with.  And I know there are no easy answers.  But I also know that there is not a single situation that can be helped by my allegiance to these self-indulging gods and their devastatingly aggressive foot soldiers.
     And so, I choose you.  Once again, Dear Father, I bring you the sawdust of my heart, asking that you build anew the throne that is rightfully yours.  Take these things that can be so good, and let them have their rightful places so that you can reign supreme.  You are God, because you ARE.  May you be LORD in my life because my heart bows before your rightful place.