A Psalm of Sorrow

A Psalm of Sorrow

Note: Contains brief adult themes framed within a spiritual reflection.

Yesterday I picked up a recovered fentanyl user and dealer — a meth user, a dealer, an ex-con, a stay-at-home dad. It was around ten in the morning, I think. I picked him up at his two-story house, which looked pretty sweet. The sky was overcast, the sun absent.

He looked like nothing special — maybe a fifty-something who still took an active role in his fitness. He wore an old, well-worn, slightly discolored Trailblazers hat that had seen its share of sun and weather.

His skin could best be described as swarthy — deep, sun-tanned leather. His stubble was white, his jaw chiseled. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on him. A three-inch knife was strapped to his right thigh, and he walked with that no-nonsense way that says he knows which end to put where.

I was nonplussed. I saw a man who could’ve been a cowboy who’d lost his hat somewhere. Honestly, I would’ve loved to see him in a Stetson smoking a Marlboro — just saying. He carried that smoky, stale-tobacco smell mixed with my dad’s old-school Old Spice aftershave.

Anyway, I liked him from the start. Some would’ve been turned off, but not me. He smelled like sex and a good time — almost as if he hadn’t bothered to shower before sauntering over to my Subaru.

I knew immediately, deep in my inner being, that he needed to be spoken to — through me, from You. I had no clue at the time what must be said. I am not wise in those ways. I am only wise in knowing when to say yes and when to instinctively say no.

It is a gift of spiritual discernment given by the Father — one that must be trained daily and intimately so we might perceive it in our inner being.

Spoiler alert: I stink at it when I try to be mindful. I end up overthinking. I end up inserting my own narrative, accidentally, subconsciously. So now I let it flow through me like a river — natural — trusting that He who inhabits me and gives me life, moment by moment, is able to do this too.

I literally sit back inside myself and say, “Take the reins. This vessel is Yours.”

I have learned to trust and rest at the same time while being yielded. Still, I want to boldly admit — I stink. I’m like a baby crawling on her knees, bumping into walls, always trying to electrocute herself by sticking pudgy fingers in the outlet.

So as he sat there — smelling of my youth, of cigarettes and suffering, mixed with a dash of hope in the form of Old Spice — You spoke to his soul in that back seat.

I will never reveal what was said, or who it was said to. Suffice it to say, the man left that Subaru two hours later with less swagger, more brokenness — but I pray, with a little more hope.

I bore witness to his pain. I wept with his brokenness. I prayed until I felt release for him.

I saw myself — what I could have become apart from You — in him.

So now, before the world, I openly thank You for breaking me in the most profound and beautiful way, and for seeding my soul with the fertilizer and love needed to sprout and blossom into the daughter You called me to be.

Beloved more by no other — indeed, Beloved.

Amen and Amen.

Dust

Please join me in prayer against this plague fentanyl. I see souls everywhere dying because of it. It breaks me. I weep for them. Weep with me. Pray actively with me.