how to walk on the flood water
I was once a fine waitress, could balance plates up my arm, a table’s worth of food and drinks – a skill I learned from watching other women.
Likewise, I learned to love a big bag and can’t seem to get out of the house without the books I’m reading, my planner, a water bottle and granola bars enough for a week away – just in case.
When I get out of the van, I pick up the bits of fast-food trash, put that big bag in the crook of one arm along with a sack of groceries. I grab the mail and also the son who’s flopped asleep in his car seat.
On my left shoulder, I carry our grandmom who’s in the hospital with heart failure and the guilt of not bringing myself to call my other grandmother. On the right, the suffocation of an unorganized apartment heaped with desire upon desire to write my book, to cook scratch organic meals, and to teach my children to be genius Jesus followers.
In my teeth, I carry one son that I don’t know how to parent. In my mouth, I choke on the things I cannot write. My head hauls marriage, bobbling under efforts to remain connected. My womb flips with fourth son.
This, I know, you do too, in your own way.
And I woke this morning realizing the flood I’d brought over myself, nearly so that I couldn’t breathe. I am not practiced at letting go and rather find myself sickly comforted by all the things to which I cling.
At 4:30 AM I wake for my sons, not that they weren’t sleeping. I sit up in an internal desperate call for help that I should have yelped out a good while back.
I can’t carry all this.
It is good to lay it all out there, to make the lists before Mind-Body-Soul GOD. It is good to say, “Take this. And this. And this,” to see His arm yank beneath the flood, His both arms stand me up, so I can walk with Him
(in His only hushed, secret, unhurried way)
on the water,
in the truth about my lack of control.
I want to learn the practice of letting go.