I don’t want that for her

I don’t want her to lose her confidence, to ever look in the mirror and not love what she sees, to pick herself apart, to search for flaws, to wish she could change and fix, instead of focusing on loving what makes her uniquely her.
I don’t want that for her.

I don’t want her to often cry herself to sleep, to feel such loneliness that it aches in her chest, to convince herself that no one in the world feels the depth of the sorrow she carries or is moved by her pain.
I don’t want that for her.

I don’t want her to do life with people but never truly share life with people. To be surrounded yet unseen, to pour out but never be poured into.
I don’t want that for her.

I don’t want her to have the kind of friend who thrives on her brokenness. The kind that revels in knowing what is going wrong in her life but never knows how to clap when things are going right.
I don’t want that for her.

I don’t want her to stop loving church. The place she once cherished, where she found joy, belonging, purpose. I don’t want her to feel unsafe in a space that was meant to be sacred, to feel more threatened than protected, more manipulated than secure.
I don’t want that for her.

I don’t want suspicion to take root in her heart. To become more familiar with disappointment than kindness, to learn to expect betrayal before loyalty. I don’t want the good people to become the ones she fears, because she no longer knows how to trust that they won’t change.
I don’t want that for her.

I don’t want her to have the friend who watches on the sidelines whilst she is belittled, bullied, ridiculed and lied about.
I don’t want that for her.

I don’t want her to look at the wounds life has given her and not see them as proof that she can heal, that she can be strong, that she can survive the things that were meant to break her, and instead take them as a sign to self-protect, for she is so easily broken.
I don’t want that for her.

I don’t want her to need to shout and swear in order to be heard, to exist in spaces where she must lose her composure just to be seen.
I don’t want that for her.

I don’t want her to shrink to fit in, to feel small in spaces she was made to stand out.
I don’t want that for her.

I don’t want her to hide behind material things, as if anything else could possibly add more value to her than all that she already is.
I don’t want that for her.

I don’t want her to seek the approval of others so much that she no longer even approves of herself.
I don’t want that for her.

I don’t want her to want to appease people so badly, to be liked so desperately, that she loses her heart that burns for truth, voice that speaks up against what is wrong and spirit that yearns for justice, just to keep the peace.
I don’t want that for her.

I don’t want her to fear love because of grief. Because she saw her mother lose her father. I don’t want her to let the weight of loss keep her from loving fully and deeply, from opening herself up to the beauty that love can bring.
I don’t want that for her.

I don’t want a weak man with greedy eyes and women in different cities, to make her feel like an option on a menu.
I don’t want that for her.

I don’t want her teachable heart to grow inpenetrable. I don’t want the hypocrisy of leaders who do not practise what they preach to make her cynical and to stop her from seeking wise counsel.
I don’t want that for her.

I don’t want rejection to make her feel like she will never be chosen, in love or in friendship. I don’t want her to question if good people still exist. I don’t want her to lose hope in the kindness of strangers, in the warmth of true companionship.
I don’t want that for her.

I don’t want the disappointments of this world to harden her heart. To make her stop believing in new beginnings. To let bitterness take the place of wonder.
I don’t want that for her.

I don’t want her to lose the way she beams at her heavenly Father. The way she looks to Him with hope. The way she allows her heart and spirit to be stirred, to believe again, to trust again, to hope again. I don’t want her to let the mysteries of life pull her away from the Author of life itself.
I don’t want that for her.

I don’t want that for me.