God, I was driving the other day and saw the mountains. The sunset. The ocean. The interstate. The skyscrapers. The hills. The alleyways. The parks. The fields. The tunnels. The cliffs. The ridges. The bays. The docks. And I thought, Lord, about how there are so many landscapes, how they are sometimes sprawling and colorful and majestic. But sometimes they're rough and rugged and terrifying. And then you brought to mind, Lord, that within my heart and yours, there are a multitude of landscapes, too. You run on my interior landscapes. You sprint. You walk. You move about. But I have a confession: Sometimes, you do not move freely because I block you. I try to trip you. I get in your way. I act as if I'm the great creator of these landscapes but, in reality, I'm not. They're yours simply on loan to me. Borrowed landscapes. Forgive me, God, for making a mess of them. For acting as if they're mine. For assuming false ownership. But now, O God, I relinquish them and confess: I've stolen. They're yours. Take them back. Tread freely. Roam about. Make them new. Place your banner everywhere over them: God's Kingdom. Indeed, may your kingdom reign over these interior landscapes and look more like yours every moment. Landscapes of goodness, truth, and beauty. In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Amen.