I am wrapping my hopes and wishes in paper. I am tying them with soft, silky ribbon, and placing those dreams on the altar. A glass bubble of a heart, protected only by a material that is somehow more delicate. One misplaced breath and they shatter to the ground.
That's the point of wishes, though. See? Plans for a future, dreams and fantasy, swirling together under a glass shell of hope. I leave them at the altar, in the palms of the author, whose gentleness exceeds any that I might have dared imagine, whose strength is so great, we have not seen the beginning.
Creator of the stars, I lay my heavy burdens at your feet, baggage worn and tired, covered in sweat and tears and fingerpaint, a vain attempt to disguise my troubles.
I beg you to take it all, those burdens I gladly drag with me, and the lightness of my hope, weighted far heavier with possibility than substance.
I am on my knees, surrendering all. You roar like a lion with majesty, and whisper like a flower, perfect and beautiful and vibrant.
I trust you with my all, I give you what is yours, and all that I believed I once had. The things you wish to show me, may they be seen, the wishes you have placed in my heart, may they come about, the future you have written, may it begin.
Amen
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