Telling or asking?

It is in the countryside, the rolling hills, the deep forest with trees that appear to touch heaven itself, that I am most aware, not how much I am alone, but the presence of God who is here.  Even there in the darkest places, the tiniest flowers poke their heads through the leafy mess last autumn left behind, the evidence of hope, the revealing that another season is coming about.

And in those grand and cavernous spaces, I find not emptiness, but a sanctuary where I can talk to God outloud.  I can't help it.  There may be no words that fit the occasion, but that is why God invented prayer.

Prayer does not bring God into the conversation nor into the situation at hand, the crisis or the breathless beauty.  But prayer recognizes God already in the room, already working, always responding in one way or another, sometimes in the unexpected, sometimes in mysteries, sometimes in incomprehensible ways.  But when I pray, am I seeking Him in this... or only an answer of my own liking?  Am I asking God -- or am I telling Him -- what to do, how to do it, where, when, and why?  Where is the relationship in that?

One prayer of Jesus in the garden of Gethsemane keeps resounding in my thoughts:  Not my will, but Yours... (Matthew 26. 39, Mark 14. 36)   What does that intimate prayer look like in my life today? 

How does that verse take root, not just in what I pray, but in how I pray?  What am I really asking for?  What do I really want?  His will -- as long as it conforms to mine?  Or something much deeper? 

I thought a lot about it while I was running, several days in a row, stopping every mile or so, to jot down my thoughts.  And a study in contrasts emerged.  How can I pray specifically and personally Not my will, but Yours…? 

Not my designated route, but Your path through the thicket.

Not my schemes, but Your incredible plans.

Not my wishes in this, but Your desires for me.

Not my great ideas, but Your enlargements.

Not my good, but Your welfare for many.

Not my better arrangements, but Your sovereignty.

Not my expectations, but hope in You.

Not my wavering opinions, but Your unchanging truth.

Not my control, but Your steadfast hand.

Not my feelings, but Your Presence.

Not my theories, but Your creation.

Not my performance, but Your grace.

Not my patching together, but Your redeeming.

Not my weakness, but Your strength.

Not my awkward stitches, but Your tapestry.
Not my despair, but Your resurrection.
Not my fictions, but Your truth.
Not my slight momentary affliction, but Your unfailing love.
Not my searching for new portals, but Your knocking on my door.

Not my adding, but Your multiplying.
Not my prescription for how it should be written, but Your eternal narrative.
Not my running away, hiding, pretending to be okay, but Your deliverance.
Not my fears of "what if...," but Your faithfulness in "what is."
Not my obsession with "what's next," but Your strength in "what's now."

Not my myopic vision, but Your eternal perspective.
Not my comfort, but Your Kingdom.
Not my crumbs, but Your banquet.
Not my selfishness, but Your sacrifice.
Not my reaction, but Your response.

Not my glory, but Yours.

Not me, but You.

Not my will, but Yours...

This little phrase of five words is not just a little prayer at all, but profoundly alters how I pray, and radically changes what my life looks like.  Praying in everyday places for what is eternal changes my perspective and reveals the comparison of what is and what can be.  O LORD, align my heart with Yours.  Help me to pray about that which is before me.  Help me to pray like that for what only You can do.  Not my will, but Yours...

For this slight momentary affliction
is preparing for us
an eternal weight of glory
     beyond all comparison,
because we look not
to the things that are seen
   but to the things that are unseen;
for the things that are seen are transient,
but the things that are not seen
                      are eternal.

                  2 Corinthians 4. 17-18

His response may very well take my breath away.