Groaning too deep for words

Back in the early 1980s there was a movie made to combat abortion called "The Silent Scream." This post has nothing to do with that particular film, although I did actually see the film. In fact, I believe I used it as a resource for a speech I prepared for my seventh grade speech class. The name of the film is what I was thinking about today, just because it seemed to me that the silent screams may actually be the loudest in God's ears.

A couple weeks ago, Katrina got an app on her phone which is designed to prove the superiority of young people's hearing over those more mature among us. This particular app plays an ascending assortment of decibel ranges ( perhaps it was descending in order, it makes little difference to my story). The point is, one listens to the increasingly faint pitches until they become indecipherable. At this point, the young people in the room start exclaiming with incredulity "You Can't hear that?!" This is the point at which the young people become officially annoying, and the more mature are wishing they could hear even less than they do.

There is a point, be it somewhat circuitous.

I have been in a constant state of prayer. It's the sort of silent scream at a decibel that only God can hear, but it's intensity drains my very core. It's the sort of prayer that underpins the mundane tasks of my days, and even threads through my dreams. It's a prayer without words, because all the words have been said, and God already knows them, anyway.

How can a mother pray with greater effectiveness? Does fasting hold the key? Sheer numbers of prayer warriors...is that it? A greater sincerity? Impossible. I do not know the key. All I know is that God is Good, and Prayer is the means by which He moves.
Prayer is the only weapon I have to fight the Apollyon Addiction, and so I cannot set my weapon down.

And so, I silently scream until my head hurts. I do the laundry, entertain guests and grocery shop. I manufacture Christmas cheer and wonder at the beauty of the snow...all the while pleading that my beloved son should come to know Abundant Life. I check to see that he is breathing, as I did in his infancy. I calmly discuss the dizzying array of intoxicants pulsing through his system as I try to evaluate the immediate risks. I try to get food into his system before he leaves again. And I parent the other young people in the house...all the while praying that God would give me enough heart, and some to spare, so that none of them would go wanting because of my private ache.

I'm tired. I hate drugs. But I believe In God and I believe in prayer. Unfortunately, faith does not keep me from the very verge of panic. It does, however, keep me most assuredly on my metaphorical knees.