For When the Clouds Roll in

Brian and I were standing on the deck as the last of the blue sky faded into black. A yellow moon rose over the yard, highlighting wisps of clouds shifting across the sky. A cool breeze kept the bugs at bay. After our nightly battle of defiance and meltdowns and screaming and crying, both boys were finally asleep. We were silent for a time, watching the stars appear.

We craned our necks back to gaze at the Big Dipper directly overhead. We followed the line from its bowl to where the North Star should be. But the clouds had thickened, and we couldn’t see it.

As the moon rose higher, above the trees, we chatted about the changes this week had brought, both for our family and for our state and nation. After 11 weeks, Brian was finally back to work at the barbershop, learning to adjust to all the new rules and protocols. I was alone with the boys all day, juggling the responsibilities of being mom, teacher, OT, PT, speech therapist, behavioral therapist, and doctor for these two precious souls. Sitting on a powder keg of epic meltdowns as all the new transitions and changes crashed into the rigid rules Elyas’s brain has created to keep chaos at bay. But mostly I was just trying to be present to my boys as we tried to survive the upheaval of our little world.

Eventually the chill in the air was too much for me, and we headed inside. I looked one last time for the North Star, but it was lost behind the clouds.

*

My CPTSD (chronic post-traumatic stress disorder) brain has been in a prolonged state of hyperarousal for weeks. In this state, it’s hard to sleep, you lose short-term memory, the language center of your brain starts shutting down, you experience intense anxiety, you can’t concentrate, and it’s incredibly hard to access stored information (among other things).

It’s also extremely hard to get my bearings. To find an anchor point in an ever-shifting sky.

As I write, I find it nearly impossible to marshal my thoughts into anything coherent. I have to continuously go the thesaurus to find my words. I lose a thought halfway through typing a sentence. I read and reread previous paragraphs and don’t remember typing those words. Or I forget how to spell words or where I was going with a particular through line. Everything takes three or four times as long.

The temptation to skip writing this week is strong.

But for me, writing is where I make sense of my world. When my sky’s obscured, it’s my act of defiance against the darkness. It’s how I find Hope—and give Hope to others stumbling along with me. It’s my radical, imperfect act of obedience to use all that I am, all that He’s given me, to love others well.

*

Back in college, the same wise professor and mentor who bestowed me with the blessing of finding my True North gave me what I call my lectio divina for life. For the soul:

Show up.

Pay attention.

Tell the truth.

Love deeply.

These last few weeks, with all their hardships and fogginess, I’ve had zero panic attacks. ZERO. Yes; I came close, but it’s actually been months since I’ve had one, which is both humbling and amazing to consider. Only six months ago I had five or six of them in one day, totaling to almost four hours stuck in mental trauma loops, hyperventilating, crying uncontrollably, frozen to the floor.

I am stronger now in so many ways than I was then. And this is what I can say about it: I’m showing up. I’m paying attention. I’m telling the truth. I’m loving deeply. It’s not perfect, but it’s progress. Even when I’m fumbling my way forward and it all seems futile, I’m digging in. I’m doing the hard work.

I’m resting and breathing deep and staying connected to the moments as they come.

I’m learning how to truly pray continuously, to give thanks in all circumstance, to see God’s blessings in the details and rejoice always.

I’m discovering what it means to seek the Lord and His strength. I’m finding that to possess the Peace that passes understanding, I have to give up my reflex to understand. I’m unearthing how to abide in the Vine and soak up the rain and lean into the promise that fruit will come.

*

I take a lot of pictures these days. So many that when Elyas sees me reach for my phone, he yells, “No pictures, Mama!”

The thing is, I have a hard time remembering what we do during the days. I remember the meltdowns and the crying and the hard stuff—those feel seared into my mind.

But that’s not how I want to remember my days. That’s not how I want to define my life. So I take photos of the happy, silly, ridiculous moments we have. Of the dance parties and painting. Of playing in the sandbox and snuggles on the couch. Of cocoons in the hammock and making music together and trike rides inside. Of brothers giggling and wrestling and getting in trouble together.

I look through all these pictures before bed each night, laughing and filling my heart with the sacred moments of motherhood. I thank God for the beautiful life I have—because I honestly love it.

Like my writing, these pictures help me redefine the darkness. They are reminders that the clouds of fear and anxiety don’t get to dictate my days. That Hope lives in our simple, everyday moments. That all is Grace.

*

I feel like so many of us are standing in the dark these days, straining our necks back, trying to find our North Star. But our worlds are covered in thick clouds—of shame, regret, hardship, grief, illness, anxiety, fear—obscuring the light. Night after night, day after day, we desperately hope to find our way through. And when the clouds and the fog don’t dissipate, we think that this is how it will always be.

We forget that the North Star is a fixed point in the sky. It never moves, even if we lose sight of it or it becomes obscured. It will show itself again. All storms eventually give way to starry skies and sunny mornings.

So until then we show up. We pay attention. We tell the truth. We love deeply.

We rest and breathe deeply and capture the beautiful moments.

We pray continuously and rejoice always and give thanks for the details.

We abide.

Yes, we will do it all imperfectly. But we will fumble our way through it anyway. Because these are where we find Hope. Grace. Peace.

Because these are our acts of defiance against the darkness rolling in.

***