God isn't holding the pen

There's a ledger running somewhere inside you. Failures down one side. Good days down the other. God at the top of the page, adding it up. So tonight, when you finally turn to say something to Him, you stop short. You don't feel paid up enough to talk.

Where did that picture come from? Not from Him. Maybe you built it from places where love had a price. Places where you checked your balance before you spoke. Then you handed the same deal to God. He never signed it. In the old story, the father saw his son coming from far off and ran to him. He didn't run the numbers first.

The ledger costs you, too. It silences you at the exact hour you most need to speak. On a strong day you can afford it. On a day like this, the math turns against you, and you decide you've got nothing worth bringing. The real bookkeeper in your life was the cigarette. It ran a tab on your money and your peace, and it always collected. That's the tab you're closing. God never opened one on you.

Before you sleep, say one true, unimpressive thing. No summary, no apology, no promises you won't keep. Bad day, Lord. That's the whole report. It's a complete prayer. Nothing's running a tab on you tonight. You're talking to Someone who's already in the room.