There are parts of me that wander.
There are parts of my mind that take it upon themselves to get up out of the cozy armchair of peace (a place they are welcome to establish permanent residence) and tiptoe down the blurred halls of my brain. They careen in and out of the lace of meninges; moguls on a mountain, and avalanche into things hidden. And independent of logic or rationale, these parts are all but forthright in their quest to discovery. All at once, bits and pieces of uncertainty and fear, of shame and guilt, of self-doubt and insecurity, are excavated and exposed by the very parts that are my own.
And this is where the panic sets in.
Like the wax of a candle just blown out, with one swift exhale I am cemented by a headlong anxiety and every fiber of my being is stiffened.
Save for a quiet shaking, in every sense of the word, I am paralyzed.
There’s really no rhyme or reason. There’s no trigger, no conscious decision to have a mini-panic attack at 3:12 p.m. on an idle Tuesday from the inside of my cubicle. I don’t sit at my desk each day and think harried thoughts in between submitting proposals and dialing into conference lines. (In fact, most days are filled with abounding peace; intense fear greeted with instant consolation to create a near perfect unanimity.) Yet sometimes, in the lulls of responding to e-mails and following-up on client requests, the question marks that loop around my little life seem paramount—and the lack of answers, the lack of a life mapped out rattles my soul and evaporates my joy.
These are days when solitude is a distant memory and deliverance seems beyond the bounds of divine possibility.
There are parts of me that wonder.
There are parts of my soul that look at life (not my life, but life) from all angles—and en masse, they are able to see both the intricacies of individual blessings and the 30,000 foot view of this Earth we traipse around. Like a sponge, they swallow up every ounce of absolute beauty; licking their fingers until the very last dewdrop is absorbed into their vitality. And with obtuse disbelief, they scribble page after page of questions—all seeking to understand how anyone could miss this.
And this is where restoration sets in.
Like the hull of a capsized ship in a final waltz to the ocean floor, I am sinking with a freeing joy and every aspect of my past is put to rest.
Save for nothing, in every sense of the word, I am renewed.
There’s really no logical explanation for redemption. There’s no logical concept, nothing begging me to understand why God, in His all-consuming power, would blanket me with His grace and free me from a season of emotional restlessness as I watch Wipeout with my little sister. I don’t deserve His love. (In fact, most days, I’m the virtual opposite of what God calls me to be; a trifecta of selfishness, insecurity and fear stage a spiritual coup and, with my tacit permission, rob me of my true identity in Him.) Yet sometimes, in the fleeing quiet (or if I’m looking up, amidst the howling of a storm), I am graciously hushed by the constant and unadulterated goodness of God.
These are the days when panic is a distant memory and God’s continual deliverance speaks total stillness into my soul.