Sparkling Escapades Abroad with the Fairy Bra Mother

The other day I shared a piece called If You Love Me.
Did you realize it was a prayer?

A prayer of desperation.

My soul and my mind were so burdened and bogged down that even though I tried to pray—over and over—nothing would come out. I was in deep anguish. I didn’t know how to ask. I was so tired of feeling this way. Tired of the fear. Tired of the uncertainty.
I was just plain exhausted.

A friend had gently told me that maybe I should just tell God exactly how I felt—and ask Him to show me, very clearly, that He loves me. That night, sleep wouldn’t come. Panic had settled in again, the kind that makes your body restless and your thoughts loud. I was awake until nearly four in the morning, and instead of forcing myself into silence, I let the words come.

I don’t feel like I wrote that piece.

It felt more like I was a channel. The words didn’t come polished or planned—they came poured. Honest. Unfiltered. Exhausted.

If this kind of prayer feels uncomfortable to read, I want to say this gently: it wasn’t written to disturb or confuse. It was written from a place many of us visit but don’t know how to name.

Sometimes the most faithful thing we can do is stop pretending we are okay.

Afterward, many people reached out. Most told me they were praying for me, or that I must be walking through a valley. A few expressed concern. When I explained that it was a prayer, that softened any worry. A trusted friend reflected on how boldly the prayer was framed and worried it could invite misunderstanding. That concern was not echoed by anyone else.

I’ve been thinking about that.
And what came to mind was Scripture.

Hebrews 4:16 (KJV) says:
“Let us therefore come boldly unto the throne of grace, that we may obtain mercy, and find grace to help in time of need.”

Coming boldly doesn’t mean coming perfectly.
It means coming honestly. Without pretending. Without dressing up our pain so it sounds acceptable.

The Psalms say it this way:
Psalm 62:8 (KJV):
“Trust in him at all times; ye people, pour out your heart before him: God is a refuge for us.”

Pour out your heart.
Not edit it.
Not soften it.
Not make it easier for others to hear.

Because if we can’t tell God how we really feel… who can we tell?

Jesus Himself said:
Matthew 7:7 (KJV):
“Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you.”

Ask.

Seek.

Knock.

Those aren’t quiet words. They imply persistence. Showing up again. Speaking even when it’s uncomfortable.

I don’t believe God is offended by truth. I don’t believe He recoils from raw prayers. I don’t believe He asks us to hide our fear, our anger, or our confusion before approaching Him.

I also believe God has a sense of humor.

I think:

He smiles at our quirks

He laughs with us, not at us

He grieves when we grieve

He sits quietly when we’re overwhelmed

And yes—I think He does that gentle, knowing head-shake parents do when their kids are human and messy and trying.

Not in disappointment—but in love.

And I’ve been wondering something else, too.

Why do you think God made such a beautiful world—
with flowers that have thorns?

Sunrises and sunsets that take our breath away, yet can burn if we aren’t careful?

Snakes and spiders that are intricate and fascinating, yet carry venom that can maim or kill?

Beauty and danger living side by side.

Maybe the world was never meant to be simple.

Maybe love—real love—was never meant to be painless.

And maybe honest prayer is what keeps us connected when beauty and pain exist at the same time.

That prayer wasn’t a list of demands.

It was a tired heart asking not to be made to decode love through suffering anymore.

It was someone who needed love shown plainly. Gently. Without riddles.

And I still believe this:
God can handle our honesty.
He already knows what’s in our hearts.

Prayer isn’t about informing Him—it’s about trusting Him enough to include Him.

That night, at four in the morning, I did exactly that.

And even now, I hold this hope: that a God who invites us to come boldly is already leaning close, ready to meet us with mercy, grace, and love—

right where we are.