Prayer For the Habitually Frightened

Prayer for the Habitually Frightened

 

God, it seems a little odd to bother you with this—

my collection of fears, well-worn like a path through the woods 

I've walked so often, telling myself tales of dark impending shapes, 

much too often, I know, 

it’s become my daily bread, these fears, a sort of sustenance.

 

I’ve run around for so long with sweaty palms

and tapped soles, darting eyes painting shadows 

as monsters that—God grant me this—

I might find the guts to stand still for once.

 

But here's the rub, the snag in my murmured prayer: 

could it be, possibly, that I clutch my fears

like old heirlooms, unable to part with the weight in my pockets?

It’s a thought, isn’t it, that I keep them near,

not out of loyalty or love, 

but as a sly excuse to stall, to not decide,

to let the responsibility of, say, success loom just out of reach.

 

Yes, God, it's me again, asking for help to see 

beyond the habit of fear,

as if I’m peering through a keyhole

at a party I’m too nervous to join.

 

Perhaps, with a little faith in Him—

that mystery guest I’ve heard so much about—

I might leave behind these trembling boots

and finally taste the liberated air.