Telling the Truth

I had one of those moments last night where for just a blip, everything about me felt a little off to the side. Nothing was quite right, or so I told myself. I folded the whites, three days neglected and meaner than spit. There was a time not long ago that I would never have let a basket sit untouched. Who have I become? Will I ever get the real girl back?

I tucked the fleece sheet up under my chin, so tired, so ready to be a better version of myself. The internal soundtrack tried its dangdest to drown out the drone of sleep. I battled the spinning wheels and dodged the fists of self-doubt.

And after all of that, after the anxiety started to build over the sleep I wasn't getting, I decided to pray.

Smart, right? I should know better by now. I'm thirty-odd years into my faith. Why, so often, does the truth land light on my shoulder like an afterthought?

I started out telling God that I trust Him, that I know I'm safe. I believe He goes before me. I have seen with my own heart and eyes the way He goes back and collects all that I've dropped. It's the truth. All of it.

But the fists kept banging and the worry boiled over. So I did something I don't do enough and I just told Him like it is. I told Him every single thing that He already knows. I felt a little shy at first. Those voices from my youth wagged their fingers and said that I was faithless. But what sense does it make to keep secrets from my Creator? How can I ask for peace without telling the whole story?

I pleaded. I laid it bare. I risked that superstitious panic that giving breath to my fears raises them up, brings them to life. I saw His smile, I know I saw it. He absorbed everything I threw and reflected it back in the best kind of love.

And then? I slid straight toward the serenity of sleep.

When I woke, it was a brand new day, and I was ready for it.