Again

Well - it was bound to happen. And just like Anne Lamott refers to her prize at the grocery store as "that f*cking ham," I am destined to refer to my automobile as "that f*cking car." Two and a half years ago it was stolen from in front of my friend Joe's apartment. In a freak Seinfeld-esque turn of events, I got it back. This morning I went out to go to work and the car was gone. STOLEN. When I called the police, the dispatcher seemed to know exactly which car I was talking about and even called me back to let me know that an officer wouldn't show up, but that I'd get a call with numbers about insurance information.

I'm in the pit. I wrote my boss and work colleagues. I signed the email like I normally do: Grace and peace. And then, I realized something. Grace and peace was not a blessing in that moment, but a prayer. So in parentheses, I added - in big capital letters: PLEASE!

I am broken, Lord.
Help me to find the quiet space.
So that when my heart stops pounding
and my stomch stops turning
and my head stops reeling,
I can just be.
Amen.