*Psalm 151: A prayer of Bradley, son of Arthur, on the morn of his vacation

Father, God of my life, here I slouch in the white chair next to my bed, clicking out my prayer to you on the first morning of my vacation.

Actually, Lord, I don’t like the word vacation. I’m not vacating, or checking out. In some ways, I’m now, finally and earnestly checking in. Engaging in what matters most. Let this be a holiday, then—a series of HOLY DAYS—because sitting quietly just beyond all the fun things I want to do (or not do, actually) is a holy goal (or two, or three):

1. I want to rediscover a stunning intimacy with you.
2. I want to relearn how to live by the Spirit instead of my own fleshly prowess and proficiency.
3. I want to break. Not A break. I mean, I want to be “sweetly broken,” as Jeremy Riddle croons on his first album. I’ve settled into some independent patterns, barren routines I don’t know how to break out of. So if you need to break me instead of the pattern, just do it. I’m ready and willing, Lord.

Yes, I want to rest, to find restoration, to have fun, family time, a magical series of Kodak moments traipsing through my summer like polaroid snapshots strung along a clothesline in the backyard. I want to sigh and mean it—cathartically, expressively, redemptively. But none of those things will do the trick for me, Lord, if I don’t relocate myself entirely in you.

Problem is, I don’t know how to do that. I’ve lost something vital in my heart since my burnout season this Winter. Not just something, someONE. MySELF. Hue-bert, “Bright-heart,” that’s me, or is supposed to be. So I haven’t been myself. “My life is hidden with Christ in God…(and) whenever Christ is revealed, I will be revealed with him in glory.” To find myself, I must embark on holy terrain, exploring the nooks and crannies of You, Lord and Father, Jesus and Lover, Wonder and Giver. And along the way, as you reveal yourself, the real me will be found, exposed, embraced, celebrated, in YOU—covered head to toe in glory like a honeybee sugared in nectar after an afternoon pushing its hungry nose into the essence of flowers.

This is my holy-day. Your holy-day. Our holy-day. I’m all yours, God.

*By calling this a Psalm, I’m not claiming any particular divine inspiration, just aiming at a particular kind of writing. By the way, if you were to write your own Psalm today, what would it be about? Maybe you should grab a pen or keyboard and pour out your heart to God…