Sundays are for weeping

My vessel, full from the daily burdens ripple until the freedom of a dimmed room and acoustics tip the overflow

And I am emptied

Ritualistic- the words to worship wash over me and I join

Sometimes.

Sometimes as a prayer

Sometimes as a backdrop to my most honest pleas with the Father

Dim sanctuaries are space for vulnerability and as I weep

Hands raised in abandon

I empty myself

Of confusion, anger, sadness, and at the root of it all …

Fear.

And slowly

Without fail, in the empty is peace.

I sit in stillness and listen; knowing I have been heard. 

My vessel newly filled.

Hosanna.