By JMathis

God and I have been in counseling for the past six weeks.

After all of this therapy, I can say that the relationship’s fallout was not a two-way street, but rather a clear case of, “It’s not you; it’s me.”

You see, I have been experiencing real difficulty in praying to God. It was getting to the point of where I never wanted to spend quality time alone with Him anymore.

Strangely enough, on the surface, it seemed like I spoke with Him quite a great deal.

I would wake up in the morning, say a prayer of protection with my daughter before beginning our day. I would say a prayer of strength before heading into my morning meeting. I would say a prayer of thanks for when the meeting concluded on a high note. I would say a prayer of blessing over my lunch. I would remember to say a prayer of encouragement for a hurting friend, or a prayer of healing for a sick relative. I would then end the day with my husband, where we said a prayer of praise to God for the bounty and miracles that took place that day.

It all sounded so good on paper.  

Except that I had lost passion for Him.

I had lost the desire to speak with Him. I had lost the joy in knowing Him.

I had lost intimacy with Him.

We were in a functioning marriage, but one where I didn’t feel like getting to know Him anymore.

I was treating Him like a roommate, and not a confidante.

I became very good at Please Pass The Salt, Thanks for Picking Up My Dry Cleaning, Here’s a New Grocery List and Don’t Forget to Pay the Rent, but little else.

I had forgotten that He was my Creator (“You made this entire universe just for me?“). I had forgotten that He was my Deliverer (“You set me free from generations of family curses?“). I had forgotten that He was my Rescuer (“You rescued me from a lifetime of bad decisions and poor choices?“). I had forgotten that He was my Savior (“You saved me from the consequences of my sin and the punishment of eternity in Hell?“).  

Most of all, I had forgotten that He was my Father, Brother and Closest Friend.

I had forgotten that the Bible was one, long love story written specifically to me.

(“You love me HOW much?“)

On a whim, I decided to enroll in a six-week Bible study on how to pray to God. I even rolled my eyes a bit when I registered, because I, Of Course, Already Knew How to Pray to God. What more could I possibly learn? At least it would be an opportunity to make  some new friends.

Six weeks later, I am a blubbering mess.

Sobbing repentantly in the car. Red-eyed and snotty-nosed over how I had mistreated Him. Wide awake about thoughts of how I can become even closer to Him.   

I had taken Him for granted. I had been unfaithful. Yet there He remained in my adultery: constant, faithful, unchanging and simply just waiting. Just waiting for me to get a clue.

I had forgotten all about My True Love and now I have found Him. Again.

Thank You, Lord, for a Second Chance. A Third Chance. A Seven Hundred and Sixty-Fifth Chance. For chances that number far higher than the stars above.

What a difference six weeks can make.

Are you ready for another chance at love?

I know I am.