Not in the sense that I am enduring the huge storms of life. No. It’s the slow trickle of the stream of stress that’s worn me down around the edges.
Over the last year or so, I’ve been on a journey to discover what it means to be still. It’s a glorious place . . . when I can find it.
What I’m struggling with, what I don’t know how to do, is be still within the hectic franticness that is life. How do you practice being still when helping your daughter study history, while your son is asking for help with spelling, and in the midst of realizing that you forgot to start dinner? Again.
The stream overflows. And that’s where I’m at. Overflowed.
I’m snippy, snarly, and down-right unpleasant to be around. My tongue is spewing, contributing to the dirty, flowing water around my feet.
Then, when I ask for prayer about one of the bigger things in my life, the request suddenly finds itself in the rumor mill. And I’m left asking for forgiveness because I maybe shared too much. I overflowed.
I’m hurt, but I’m devastated because in my good intentions, I hurt the people I care about. The people I was trying to figure out a way to help. And I’m sorry. It wasn’t my intent, but it doesn’t make the consequences go away. I contributed a hurricane wind to someone else’s already big storm. The waters rise to my shoulders.
How much worse have I made it for my loved ones? How can they ever forgive me?
Now I’m at flood stage and I can’t sleep. How can I be still with the water rushing, quickly covering my mouth, my eyes? I am lost. Oh God, I am lost. However will I make it?
And I realize I can’t. It isn’t inside of me. I’m uncontained. My shoreline has all crumbled away. I have slipped under.
I cannot walk on water. I cannot make peace out of chaos. Instead of panic, I find a strange relief. To know I cannot.
My hope is something outside myself. A hand to reach into the water and lift my eyes. A strong tower. An ever-present help.
I am still.