I’m glad I found this floating around on the net. Back in the day, I saw it in a narrow column in a magazine—to date myself, it was way back when magazines weren’t printed on glossy white pages that’s standard today—clipped it, and carried it around in my planner. I always had it with me, year after year, until planners became palm pilots, and until those became smart phones.
So, without further ado, by Marjorie Holmes:
I’ve got to talk to somebody, God. I’m worried. I am unhappy. I feel inadequate so often, hopeless, defeated, afraid.
Or again I’m so filled with delight I want to run into the streets proclaiming, “Stop, world, listen! Hear this wonderful thing.”
But nobody pauses to listen, out there or here – here in the very house where I live. Even those closest to me are so busy, so absorbed in their own concerns.
They nod and murmur and make an effort to share it, but they can’t; I know they can’t before they begin.
There are all these walls between us – husband and wife, parent and child, neighbor and neighbor, friend and friend.
Walls of self. Walls of silence. Even walls of words.
For even when we try to talk to each other new walls begin to rise. We camouflage, we hold back, we make ourselves sound better than we really are. Or we are shocked and hurt by what is revealed. Or we sit privately in judgment, criticizing even when we pretend to agree.
But with you, Lord, there are no walls. You who made me, know my deepest emotions, my most secret thoughts. You know the good of me and the bad of me; you already understand.
Why then do I turn to you?
Because as I talk to you my disappointments are eased, my joys are enhanced. I find solutions to my problems, or strength to endure what I must.
From your perfect understanding for my own life’s needs.
Thank you that I can always, turn to you. I’ve got to talk to somebody, God.
Some days, more often than I like to admit, I feel quite resentful—I hate that word “resentful,” the very sound of it gives off a certain negativity—I feel rushed to get out my day’s quota of “sharing.” It’s as if an egg timer is counting down my alloted time or I’m only entitled to a certain amount of information to share before others are allowed to dismiss me and wander off into their own conversations. Had I been made of lesser stuff, my insecurities would have eaten me alive by now. As it is, I’m grateful for that protective layer of whale blubber under there somewhere; I may be thin-skinned but I do have some protection.
I wish there was a better way to communicate but I know that flawed as it is, I have a lot to be grateful for. Still, it doesn’t change the fact that sometimes I want to run away from the people I love the most. They have no clue; and I don’t have it in me to make them understand. I need to pray more. Get more talking going. Hopefully God will answer in ways I can comprehend.