Too many nights, in the quiet of my bedroom, I’m an unwilling actor playing a part in my own private drama. It’s like a movie set where the raucous din of the beer-swilling ringside crowd fades away and the bright arena lights dim, leaving a solitary, naked bulb suspended over the ring. And there, trapped by a square of thick, dark ropes, two figures dart and punch, advancing and retreating as blood and sweat fly. But as the camera zooms in, there is a moment of confusion. The cameraman squints and rubs his eyes, wondering if he’s seeing things. It seems he must be seeing double. Because there I am, this short, straining, blonde woman locked in a death grip with none other than…myself.
My worthy opponent delivers her first blow, capturing my attention by listing off everything I should be worried about—any possible gut punch she could land on my newly-widowed, single mother self: Is my grieving daughter going to be okay as she navigates college life so far away? Will the money coming in be enough to sustain me through this season and into retirement? Should I keep the house? Sell it? And on…and on… My breath comes faster now, and my head spins. She’s thrown me off balance with this one, and it takes me a moment to find my legs again.
By distracting me with these anxiety-powered jabs, I think she fancies herself to be my savior. She wants to spare me the worst possible thing: to be alone, in the night, with myself. You see, she believes that the aloneness would certainly be too lonely. And loneliness is pain. And pain must be avoided. So in her simple logic, distracting me every evening is the heroic thing to do. But what she doesn’t know is this: I need this quiet, undistracted hour to take stock, breathe, put pen to paper and process the day. Many days, this is the only time I’m still enough to listen to the stirrings of my heart or to feel the gentle nudge of the Holy Spirit. This is where I recharge and recalibrate, reconnecting with God and myself.
Truth be told, sometimes I just stare at the walls while my warm, sleeping pups model simple rest.
But my determined opponent is never happy to see me here in this solitude. So when the anxious cacophony circling my brain fails to thoroughly distract me, she ups the ante, trying a new approach. She shoves me off the bed. Then, grounding herself down and leaning into me, she slowly and steadily slides me across the floor into my office where my computer awaits. Once there, she’ll prompt me with a dose of shame, hissing, “Any responsible person would check her emails!” If this tack fails, she’ll click on my favorite store site, swinging some lovely, shiny new thing in front of my face, artfully convincing me that I need it. “It’ll make you happy!” she promises, her smile as oily as the lying Grinch’s. And then there is FaceBook. Ah, FaceBook. That ever-ready, endless supply of opportunities to peer into other people’s shiny, flawless lives. And on those nights when I let my nemesis bully me into worry or distract me with the bottomless pit of technology, I feel my soul sucked dry, an arid landscape.
There must be some necessary soul training for me here at the end of the day, where I encounter myself. Because God could step into this ring wearing a referee’s black and white striped shirt, blow his whistle, and call this fight anytime. But instead, like a seasoned ringside coach, he patiently watches me duke it out, offering his best advice from just outside the ropes, reminding me of all he has trained me to do, of all the rewards awaiting me if I prevail. Some nights I focus in on his voice, listening well enough to avoid stepping into the ring at all. But tonight I’m sucked in, surrounded once again by those four rope walls. And as my sparring partner moves toward me, looming large, I’m struggling to hear his life-saving words.
And then, in a moment’s pause between the blows, his voice reaches me over the roaring crowd, bathing my heart in grace, giving me the courage to do what I know I need to do. I throw my padded gloves down onto the sweat-stained floor, stretch the ropes apart, and climb out of the ring, ignoring the taunts and catcalls of my opponent and the disappointed crowd who came to see a good, long fight. My coach is right alongside me now, covering me with his best satin robe, leading me out of the noise and chaos, transporting me far away. He opens a thick door, and as I take in the tableau in front of me, my breath begins to deepen and slow. There it is: my private sanctuary, looking just as if I’d never left. Under the warm glow of the bedside lamp, my pups sleep on my favorite bedspread, thumping their tails in greeting. And there on my pillow awaits my journal, open to the page I had just begun to write.
So for tonight, at least, I will breathe…feel…pray…listen…sit in the quiet. Will I find pain there? Possibly. But there are worse things than pain. Will I be lonely? Sometimes. Lonely, but never alone. And as I review the day, will I feel my spirit lift with gratitude for all that is good and right in my life and the lives of those I love? Most surely. And in this mix of emotions, my steady coach will be present, whispering his healing peace, gently prompting me to let him hold all the colors of my heart. And then I will lie down, drifting into the sweet rest of a well-loved woman.
And what of my cunning opponent? Tonight she has stepped away from the ring. But I don’t expect her to be gone for long. Tomorrow night, as the bedside clock reminds me it’s time to climb in, something tells me she will want a rematch.
Wow. I have literally been a boxer, physically throwing jabs and uppercuts at a trainer during the darkest part of my life. And now I approach grief again as my mom lays in hospice right now. You have bravely captured the physical, emotional and spiritual intensity of sparring. Thank you for this. My heart goes out to you in your grief, thank you for sharing it boldly with us
Thank you, Vina, for your heartfelt reply to my essay. This grief “club” is one none of us signed up for. I am sorry to hear you and your family are among its newest members.
And I am glad I was not too far off the mark with my boxing imagery (as I’ve never thrown a punch in my life!). Thanks for letting me know I got it right.
Gratefully,
Carrie
Vina, I saw your post about your mom. Bless you, friend! May your mother ease into eternity and be home. Thank you for these word pictures.
Carrie, thank you for these difficult words. Such hard times, and everyone handles them in a different way. May God be very close.
Throughout my journey, He has been the one steady point. Always loving me, always present (even when I couldn’t feel it!). Thanks for your encouraging words, Diane.
Dear Beautiful Sister of mine. This is so lovely. I read it before but now am so pleased to see it shared for so many more to soak up. Love you much.
Ahh… I know you will always be “in my corner!”
Love you more!
What an apt image. I am facing some – need to learn blown out of proportion, unspoken expectations not met by leadership and false accusations which have taken me out of a God given role. The church is family but also fights to be institution. My prayer is that this is only for a time. My fear of going back in has been a mental physical fight and only the grace of God is my salvation. This imagery has helped me see the battle more clearly. I rely on His grace!
Karen, I’m glad this has been helpful to you at what sounds like an over-the-top stressful time.
“…reminding me of all he has trained me to do….listening well enough to avoid stepping into the ring at all….gently prompting me to let him hold all the colors of my heart. And then I will lie down, drifting into the sweet rest of a well-loved woman.” The challenge is so beautifully and well-defined. These applies in so many contexts. Thank you for sharing your insights again, Carrie. The beauty of your soul and your Lover’s sparkle in this piece.
You’re right, Linda, that we face this push-pull dynamic in lots of different situations. I’m glad this piece spoke to you in yours.
This image so aptly describes my situation. I am so struggling right now with just being present before God. “By distracting me with these anxiety-powered jabs, I think she fancies herself to be my savior. She wants to spare me the worst possible thing: to be alone, in the night, with myself. ” This post helps me name what’s going on. I will strive to put the boxing gloves down.
Yes, Stephanie, the distractions can be so powerful—no matter which corner they come from! Blessings to you as you attempt to hang up those gloves.
Hi Carrie. So this is kind of crazy but my sister, Stephanie Reeves, recently asked me if I remembered you from high school. She has been part of the Redbud Writer’s Guild for awhile now. So, of course I remember you! Wow, 40+ years later, right? I read a little about you and what’s been going on and am so sorry for the loss of your husband. That is an unbelievable story.
Anyway, hello from the Pacific Northwest, where I’ve been living for the past, mmm, 38 years, since I graduated from Cal Poly San Luis Obispo and set out for some new adventures.
I’ve read some of your blog posts and think it’s very brave to share your story like that. May you continue to find hope and courage as you look for a new normal, seeking God along the way.
Leslie, It’s so good to hear from you! (So sorry for the late, late response, but I somehow missed your comment.) I remember you as well. Funny how those high school relationships find a landing place in the heart, right?
I hope life is treating you well up in the gorgeous Pacific Northwest. (I have a sister in Port Townsend, and a high school friend–Karen Wiele McGrouther–in the greater Seattle area.)
I’ve only been on one Redbud retreat so far, so not sure if I’ve had a chance to meet your sister or not… I will keep an eye out for her! The Redbud women have been such a wonderful source of encouragement, education, and inspiration for me. I’m so grateful to be a member.
Thanks so much for reaching out. It’s always good to hear from old friends!
Gratefully,
Carrie