Chapter 20 #2
Gemma flinched, uneasy, and managed to suppress the overwhelming urge to interrupt Celia Kate’s reading with dark humor.
Before she could comment on her brain dump, Nell volunteered to go next and carefully unfolded the sheet of paper she held in her hand, smoothing out the creases as she did so.
She leaned closer to decipher the small block letters printed on the page.
I fear death. Not my own. My own death doesn’t scare me. I know where I’m going when I die. And I know I’ll see my mother
and grandmother there. But even though we will be reunited one day, living on this earth without the people I loved so much
is a terrible feeling. Like Mo and Jeffrey. Every time she talks about losing him, I panic inside at the thought of losing
Sean. I fear the phone call in the middle of the night. I’m afraid if I relax, even for a second, I’ll be caught off guard.
I’m worried about Silas leaving me. I have babied him his whole life.
He’s spoiled more than my other kids. Okay?
I admit it. Because of that, I fear I have not equipped him with all he needs to be successful on his own.
He can’t even boil water. He can’t find the cereal in the pantry.
The only time he tried to wash clothes, his jeans and T-shirts came out with bleach stains.
It’s my fault for doing those things for him all the time.
It’s my fault that he’s so dependent. If he goes out into the world and can’t take care of himself, Sean will hold that over me forever.
He will insist that homeschooling was a bad idea.
He will tell me that if Silas had been subjected to public school and spent more time with other kids, then he would be more mature.
I know he would because even though he’s seen the success of homeschool, Sean is still in the stereotypical frame of mind that homeschooled kids are oblivious to how the world works and don’t get enough social interaction.
I know that isn’t true, but still, I’m afraid of the “I told you so.” I’m afraid of looking like a failure to my husband.
What if Silas is okay, though, living off ramen? What if he manages to not burn down his future apartment? Then that is great,
but that will mean he won’t ever come home to live with us again. I have full confidence that Sophie and Tucker will do fine
on their own one day, but will I ever be able to sleep not knowing where my kids are or what they are doing? How can I protect
them when they are out from under my thumb? I can’t.
I read a devotional not long ago about Moses’s mother putting him in that basket. The story has always made me anxious and
put a knot in my throat. A BABY IN A BASKET IN A RIVER. It makes me think of that time when I was little and put our puppy
on the pool raft and he toppled right off and disappeared underwater for a minute and it scared me to death. A helpless baby
in that same situation? My goodness. That is the point though, isn’t it? Moses didn’t fall out. He didn’t drown. God got him where he wanted him to be, unscathed. He’s going to do that for my kids too. And for Nell’s
kids. All of our kids. Won’t he?
But baby Moses drifting safely in deep water isn’t the first thing I think of when I read horrible news lines or hear tragic stories.
Because sometimes God does allow traumatic things to happen.
Like Nell said about Job—God allowed every trial he went through.
And I know the story of Job ended with joy.
I know the story ends by saying Job lived a long, good life, despite all the bad stuff that happened to him, but knowing that God said to the Enemy, “Have you considered my servant Job?” makes me panic.
I don’t want to be considered, God. Not me. Not my family. Not my kids.
Being considered. That’s my fear.
Celia Kate wiped her eyes at the words she’d written and cleared the lump from her throat while Gemma settled comfortably
into the soft pillows on the couch. With a gentle flick of her wrist, Gemma unfolded the sheet of notebook paper from the
vase Nell had handed her, bringing it to eye level. After taking a large swig of hazelnut-flavored coffee, she began to read
the words written on the page.
I’m scared I’ll always be poor. I’ll always feel like the help, the maid. I will always be less than. I fear working at the
convenience store for the rest of my life. I even fear getting robbed at the convenience store. I fear PJ will always feel
responsible for me and that I will be a burden to him. I fear I’ll never find a good man to love me. I fear I’ll only ever
attract abusive men like Phillip. I fear Phillip has changed for the better and is treating his new wife the way I should
have been treated. I keep replaying our relationship in my mind, trying to figure out where it went wrong. Did I do something
to deserve how he treated me? Was it my fault he became abusive? These thoughts run through my mind all the time and make
it hard to move on and find peace.
Is my life ever going to change? When am I going to get over these fears and insecurities?
Will I ever move past them? Every time I hop on social media, I see so many people I know making progress, hitting their goals, and living their dreams. Meanwhile, I feel like I’m treading water, barely keeping my head above the surface.
I’m so tired, and honestly, there are times when I just want to throw in the towel.
There’s a homeless woman in Forsyth Park who looks about my age. She wears a holey green raincoat and muddy tennis shoes.
All she owns is in two big dirty duffel bags. What happened to her to end up there? How many paychecks did she miss to put
her in the park? Sometimes she’s beaten up. Sometimes it’s obvious she has been crying. I want to help her. I wish I could
spare a dollar here or there. I wish I could buy her a meal. But I’m barely surviving too. And it scares me. I’m scared I’ll
become the woman in Forsyth Park.
I want the kind of joy that Nell has talked about. But why would God care about me? I don’t have any money to put in the offering
plate, and I’m not exactly an expert on religious stuff. I’ve read the Bible a little bit, but honestly, most of it confuses
me. I’m just a poor girl from North Carolina who’s been disappointed a lot in the past. I hoped my mom and dad would get better,
that Phillip would treat me right, and that my last paycheck would be enough to keep the lights on, but I was let down.
Let down. Down and out. That pretty much sums up my story, and I’m scared I’ll look like a fool if I believe things will ever
change. Maybe where I belong is with that woman in Forsyth Park.
There were several times over the weekend when Erin had felt vulnerable and scrutinized, but none more so than that moment.
While Erin reeled with humiliation, Moira moved Dove from her lap and sprinted over to the kitchen counter to grab a pair of stylish reading glasses.
The frames glimmered in the soft light of the hearth room as she carefully adjusted them on her nose.
She sat back in the soft white chair and the cat resumed her spot in Moira’s lap, with a look of annoyance at the abrupt move.
Moira cleared her throat and read the block print.
I fear the same things that these other women have already talked about this weekend. Everyone fears the same things to some
degree, I guess. Rejection, death, tragedy, loss of control, judgment of others, succumbing to temptation, loneliness.
All mothers fear for their children, and I can’t stand to think of my son in the military and being deployed to some scary
place. I feel nauseated just writing the words. I don’t even like the thought of my daughter being on a well-lit college campus
with security cameras. Just last month, her sorority sister’s drink was spiked. Thankfully she had good friends to see that she got home safely, but I wish Taylor hadn’t told
me about it because I have been a nervous wreck since. Despite being on my knees, begging for the promises of protection found
in the book of Psalms over both my children, I usually have a sense of dread hovering over me and it just won’t release me
from its grip.
Worry is a sin, isn’t it? God’s Word clearly tells us not to do it, that worry is a lack of faith, but I disobey and do it
anyway. It’s our fleshly nature to worry, and our flesh is constantly at war with our spirit, with the part of us that knows
the doubts and fears that consume us are nothing but lies—strongholds designed by the Enemy to keep us shackled in a state
of bondage and insecurity, to rob us of joy and peace.
I know I talk about God a lot, and that portrays me as a woman of great faith.
I say the expected things that good Christians should say, but I have to admit that I sometimes feel a deep disconnect from my faith, from my God who loves me so.
I’m a hypocrite to preach to CK about trust when my own mind is a constant battleground of anxiety and mistrust.
I used to drink to ease my anxieties, so I understand why Moira does the same. I’m thankful God has been so good and so kind
to give me the strength to stay on the wagon, because some days I just want to jump off, numb my thoughts, and quiet my mind.
I know alcohol does that well. Even if it’s only temporary.
God, forgive me of my unbelief, my doubt, my skepticism. I have seen firsthand how good you are, but sometimes I have bouts
of amnesia. I forget that you always show up right on time. I forget that you are who you say you are. I forget that you are
always working, even when I don’t feel it. I forget there really is truth in what I preach to others.
Father, forgive me where I have failed you, Nell continued to pray silently while Erin unfolded the crisp letter she had removed from the vase, its paper slightly crinkled
from being held tightly. She began to read the elegant penmanship in thick black ink.