The fervent prayer of a righteous woman.

Once upon a Sunday morning, one not so long ago, I was sitting in a church service, soaking in truth with a smile on my face, feeling uplifted to such a height I could have sworn there were clouds within my reach.

Then a memory like a pin came in and jabbed a small hole in my balloon. I slowly lost altitude.

For much of the past eight months, I have felt like I've been living in a moment that is perpetually seriously wrong.

"God, why? This is driving me crazy. This is ridiculous. Do you not see how ridiculous this is? I am an untapped well whose resources are not being taken advantage of. What is there to be gained from me being completely helpless? Did I just take five years to get through college and gain a degree so that I could move on to keeping my house clean, hanging drywall with my dad, and serving as a non-paid taxi driver? What's going on? I don't get it."

That's just a small snapshot of my end of the dialogue I was having with God. There were moments that were less bewildered and self-imposing and more encouraging, but in general I spent most of my time feeling defensive, believing, subconsciously I think, that to stop fighting would mean admitting defeat, which was unacceptable.

I did eventually begin to get over myself, though. It was a remarkable work of grace. And I began to see how nothing was wrong, how suffering isn't always punishment, but - more often than not, perhaps - an opportunity for better; a grace is its own right. We'll leave that there until another blog on another day, and say nothing more on the subject beyond this frame of mind is the one I had on that high-flying Sunday morning. Another one of the reasons I was feeling so much lighter than air.

We now return to the prickly memory. I don't remember what anyone was saying at the time to trigger my specific remembering. All I recall is that my specific remembering was of a time several years ago. I came to a point in my existence where I was feeling particularly discontented by how content I was to be comfortable. When I get comfortable, I get stagnant. I don't grow. I don't contribute much to the world. I don't do anything to enrich another person's life, because I'm not doing anything to enrich my own. I only drain life, I don't give it.

I was so unsatisfied by settling for comfortable contentment, that I remember writing these words to God: "Lord, don't let me get comfortable." And for a time after that, as I would think-talk to God, I would repeat those words, "Please, don't let me get comfortable." I repeated them often, and fervently.

Vividly flashed the memory. Sharp became the realization: I begged God to disallow my comfort, then what did I do when my comfort was undermined? I felt like a victim. I fought against defeat.

Oh. Yeah. That's right. I did say that, didn't I?

It's a good thing I'm not condemned. My balloon did deflate a little, but I very quickly felt that much more a victim of grace than I had before. God honored my prayer, even when I didn't understand the gravity of what I had prayed or that I had prayed it at all. He's not letting me settle for less than the fullness that is available to me.

Thank you, thank you, Jesus.