On a typical weekday, there is always a craft, usually felt or buttons, paper and glue. There is the stacking and restacking of framed photographs as I try to furnish my walls. Yesterday there was the strategic placement of hearts. Everywhere.
Always I sweep after breakfast. And always, some cartoons, watched while flopped lazily on pillows and a blanket with a hot chocolate stain.
On a typical snowy weekday, I may bake. I may even exercise, but sometimes, especially at night, I start to panic.
It doesn’t matter about what really, if there’s something even half-troublesome, I will mold it into a full-blown worry. Usually, the worry is to the tune of my family and the eternities, to spiritual death and physical death, and the trivialities that seem generously super-sized when the lights go out.
First, my breathing starts to go”¦ skipping along, and fast. And then my heart beats like an animal rattling at its cage. Then my freakishly illogical train of thought jumps to conclusions irrational, and then sometimes, if it’s really bad: the tears come.
And when the tears come, well, then, you (and my husband) can be certain I’m thinking that the Spirit is trying to tell me something. Is this a prompting? Or a panic attack?
On a typical February weekday there is always a storm, sometimes outside, sometimes in my heart. I’m growing weary of these tempests. Then I read this: As Elijah stood upon the mount before the Lord, he felt “a great and strong wind ”¦ ; but the Lord was not in the wind: and after the wind an earthquake; but the Lord was not in the earthquake: and after the earthquake a fire; but the Lord was not in the fire: and after the fire a still small voice” (1 Kgs. 19:11”“12).
A still, small voice. And not a panic attack.
I need to remember that on a typical weekday there can be prayer and there can be peace, there can be crafts and treats, but should there be worry?
Is there any place for fear in our faith-based gospel?
Is it self-indulgent or selfish? Is there a way to quell these storms?