When the Angry Surges Roll...

Sometimes sorrow comes with immensity, and it is not the nagging murmur I never thought I would long for.  It knocks the wind out of me and leaves me unable to breathe or feel the need for breath.  In that moment I cannot pray, but my very existence becomes a prayer:  "God, continue to hold the universe together -- hold me together.  Don't let me break apart under this and cease to be."

Such is the reality, even for a child of God.  The path through life is war-torn by sin, with collateral damage everywhere.  
The way of the cross does not bypass pain -- rather it is a road of suffering.  
And prayer is not always an ordered composition of historically accepted spiritual priorities; it is the cry of the wounded, the helpless moan of distress.
It holds a broken acknowledgement of dependency and a shadow of hope.  
While thankful for the Lord's Prayer given in answer to the disciples' question,  "How should we pray?",  I am most grateful that Christ promises to pray for me -- and that He gives form to my groanings.  
In His words on my behalf I hear the weight of carrying me.

I am praying for them.  I am not praying for the world but for those whom you have given me, for they are yours.  All mine are yours, and yours are mine, and I am glorified in them.   And I am no longer in the world, but they are in the world, and I am coming to you.  Holy Father, keep them in your name, which you have given me, that they may be one, even as we are one.

I am helpless.  But He knows that, and He is not.

Though Satan should buffet and trials should come,

Let this blest assurance control:

That Christ has regarded my helpless estate 

And has shed His own blood... for my soul.