I couldn't catch my breath. I had been on this walk for nearly twenty minutes. I wasn't walking quickly. Why couldn't I catch my breath? Why were tears pricking my eyes?
It was Monday, the start of the first full week of the kids' eLearning. We had been at it all morning. Mom, Mom, Mom, MOM. I wanted to change my name. I couldn't stop reading the news stories. The major cities were being told to "shelter in place" (no leaving home unless you were getting groceries, going to the doctor, or going to work, etc.). Would we be next? My mind was racing.
Aaron encouraged me to get some fresh air. He could take his calls [he's working from home now] and keep an eye on the kids. I started out thinking I would jog, but I just couldn't muster the strength or desire to move at more than a slow lumber.
I tried tuning into my church's daily devotional on YouTube. Somehow I was redirected to a different preacher. I'd heard him before. This time it was different, though. He wasn't in a suit standing behind a pulpit. He was in casual clothes, sitting on a stool, looking downright haggard. He'd just lost his niece. A few months prior, he'd lost his brother. This recording must have been taped some time ago, because I know since then he's lost his wife. At any rate, his daughter, also a preacher, was tearfully interviewing him, trying to make sense of what seemed like such a senseless tragedy.
My mind wandered to all the deaths in Italy right now. To all the deaths here. To all the heart wrenching, sudden, excruciating goodbyes. Tears pooled in my eyes. I came to the tunnel that runs under the main road between our neighborhood and a green space. I don't know why, but I wanted to take a picture. So I did.
I noticed as I captured the shot, the brightness obscured the details. When I tapped my screen, I could make the puddle in the middle visible, the walls darker, the path at the end a little clearer. I took a second picture.
As I continued the walk, I realized I liked the first perspective better. I liked the light at the end of the tunnel. I could choose to focus on the puddle and darkness and winding road or simply on the light. I realized I was okay with ambiguity as long as I knew I was walking into the light. The path wasn't perfectly clear, but my next few steps were. I decided to choose light.
I emerged from the tunnel and noticed another thing. My gait felt odd, off somehow. I had been looking down, unfocused, subconsciously avoiding cracks in the sidewalk that were placed at uneven intervals. I decided to change my perspective again. I looked up a little. I focused ahead. My gait became even.
I looked up even more. I walked steadily. Then something else happened. As my head tilted back, my mouth naturally fell open a little. Breathe. My shoulders, which I hadn't realized were hunched until that moment, relaxed. I could breathe again. Deep, cleansing breaths.
I allowed the preacher's words and familiar scriptures to sink deep into the recesses of my troubled soul. I reminded myself that God's plans are a mystery. He is bigger, so much bigger than me. He is good.
Today is Tuesday. I am choosing my perspective. Yes, as of tomorrow night, we will be officially ordered to "shelter in place." But I am focused on the silver lining...I am in love with all those living within the walls of our home. I am blessed to spend this time with them. I hope and pray that any who happen to read this will find peace and love in their own shelters as well.
But as for me, the nearness of God is my good; I have made the Lord GOD my refuge, That I may tell of all Your works. Ps 73:28
It was Monday, the start of the first full week of the kids' eLearning. We had been at it all morning. Mom, Mom, Mom, MOM. I wanted to change my name. I couldn't stop reading the news stories. The major cities were being told to "shelter in place" (no leaving home unless you were getting groceries, going to the doctor, or going to work, etc.). Would we be next? My mind was racing.
Aaron encouraged me to get some fresh air. He could take his calls [he's working from home now] and keep an eye on the kids. I started out thinking I would jog, but I just couldn't muster the strength or desire to move at more than a slow lumber.
I tried tuning into my church's daily devotional on YouTube. Somehow I was redirected to a different preacher. I'd heard him before. This time it was different, though. He wasn't in a suit standing behind a pulpit. He was in casual clothes, sitting on a stool, looking downright haggard. He'd just lost his niece. A few months prior, he'd lost his brother. This recording must have been taped some time ago, because I know since then he's lost his wife. At any rate, his daughter, also a preacher, was tearfully interviewing him, trying to make sense of what seemed like such a senseless tragedy.
My mind wandered to all the deaths in Italy right now. To all the deaths here. To all the heart wrenching, sudden, excruciating goodbyes. Tears pooled in my eyes. I came to the tunnel that runs under the main road between our neighborhood and a green space. I don't know why, but I wanted to take a picture. So I did.
I noticed as I captured the shot, the brightness obscured the details. When I tapped my screen, I could make the puddle in the middle visible, the walls darker, the path at the end a little clearer. I took a second picture.
As I continued the walk, I realized I liked the first perspective better. I liked the light at the end of the tunnel. I could choose to focus on the puddle and darkness and winding road or simply on the light. I realized I was okay with ambiguity as long as I knew I was walking into the light. The path wasn't perfectly clear, but my next few steps were. I decided to choose light.
I emerged from the tunnel and noticed another thing. My gait felt odd, off somehow. I had been looking down, unfocused, subconsciously avoiding cracks in the sidewalk that were placed at uneven intervals. I decided to change my perspective again. I looked up a little. I focused ahead. My gait became even.
I looked up even more. I walked steadily. Then something else happened. As my head tilted back, my mouth naturally fell open a little. Breathe. My shoulders, which I hadn't realized were hunched until that moment, relaxed. I could breathe again. Deep, cleansing breaths.
I allowed the preacher's words and familiar scriptures to sink deep into the recesses of my troubled soul. I reminded myself that God's plans are a mystery. He is bigger, so much bigger than me. He is good.
Today is Tuesday. I am choosing my perspective. Yes, as of tomorrow night, we will be officially ordered to "shelter in place." But I am focused on the silver lining...I am in love with all those living within the walls of our home. I am blessed to spend this time with them. I hope and pray that any who happen to read this will find peace and love in their own shelters as well.
But as for me, the nearness of God is my good; I have made the Lord GOD my refuge, That I may tell of all Your works. Ps 73:28
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