My Father who art in heaven —
Truly, hallowed and holy is your name.
As I begin to write my yearly psalm of thanksgiving, this my 12th or 13th year, I’m wrestling with where to start, what to say, how to even approach you.
Not that I’m not thankful, because I am. But I don’t want this to be rote and same — or worse, clever for cleverness sake. After 12 or 13 years, I struggle to be fresh. I struggle to be present, to not just phone it in.
Your holiness, your hallowedness, demands that I be real before you.
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