The Days I Hate

The rain falls heavy outside and seeps through the roof into my haven,  the dripping reminding me that what I try to keep out is always coming for me. The dark grey matches my mood as the whisperings of anxiety hurl their accusations into my ear. My face burns and my heart breaks at the realization that these days always seem to find me.

One foot in front of the other seems like trudging through quicksand. Each movement of attempted escape only feels like a weight pulling me under.

The fear, the old fear, raises its serpent head and lunges at me, and though it misses I wonder for just how long. The whispers become bombs raining shrapnel attempting to penetrate and destroy.

These are the days I don’t want to write about, I don’t want to share with the world, because they don’t shout of the hope I want my life to proclaim. On good days it is easy to be Beloved and speak of calling, to make plans for the future and hope in God. Then the days come with their dark forebodings and the roof leaks and the plans fail and the hope seems so far out of reach.

Honestly, I’m having one of THOSE days. I dropped to my knees in the shower this morning and as the water washed away the remnants of yesterday I told God how I hate the fear, the anxiety, and this constant return to those places. My ever present failure it seems.

And He said, “I know.”

That’s it. He didn’t offer to make it go away or promise it would never return, just an acknowledgement.

And maybe that’s enough today.

So, as my face continues to burn and the fear persists in its taunting, I will put on my shoes and go about the day. I will continue to speak the truth I know that doesn’t change with feelings or accusations.

He is love. I am loved. There is grace. There is hope. It’s not the end.

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