An Abstraction on the Chain {Fear Day 22}

We were arguing late at night, standing there on cold wood floors, moonlight streaming in, and all I want is to touch his face, for him to trace the lines of mine, and for us to hold each other close in our big four-poster bed with the windows all around, and I said some awful things. Love can make you do the truly abhorrent when you’re lonely.

I said the “H” word–that four letter one that lets him know how I feel. I wounded and scarred up our home, the sacred, the holy. “I hate that you are so distant, that you never touch me, if you want to know the truth, I hate you when you make me feel this way!”

I wrecked everything, hurt him in my thirst for more. So we go to bed holding one another and when I turn over, the chain pulls him toward me and he scoots in close. I wake and touch feet to shiny pine, shuffle out of my bedroom in yoga pants and black flip-flops, feeling rested and slightly askew, step around a little pile of trash someone forgot to discard, and first thing I go and make sprite for my baby, hug my eldest who has been sick in the night.

She looks at me, her all spindly and hair disheveled and curled in fractured sunlight bouncing off, and I see pain in her eyes, and I wonder how much of the argument she heard on her end of the house. With all my babies’ stomachs churning for the past week and running back and forth to the toilet even in black quiet when I can’t hear, I pray it stops somehow. That this would be the end of this torment.

Depression has been hanging over me, a buzzard circling overhead, waiting for the right moment, that moment when life ceases.

I see the chains that bind. I see all the fears that keep me captive, make me a lunatic starving mad for affection in the middle of the night.

I’m linked, soul-bound to this man I said “Yes” to when he whispered in my ear so softly, as we both leaned in close, so unsure, right there on my parents’ couch, “Will you marry me?”‘ Just a quiet hush, nothing more, almost a question, him needing my response to fully form his asking and let it hang free in the air.

I see that I’m afraid of losing him. I’m afraid he’ll go so far away that he’ll never return.

It can feel like that–when a man is distant, like he actually left physically. I ache and groan and grieve and misery spews out of my mouth in words that should never be uttered.

And there is only one way I know to put an end to all things vile. And that’s what I do first thing, what the misery pushes me toward, and like an old song being played I know the steps to, I get out my bible and read a whole psalm.

I read through the first several verses alone and then I open right up, let breath flow out of me, and read the entirety of God’s goodness to them. They fall back to sleep, all my sick littles, while I herald the good news. They are lulled by His grace and peace, settling down over them, covering, a down comforter, weighted and weightless.

I feel satiated and I know this is how to break the chains that have made me a prisoner and I’m a prisoner of my own making. I have chosen in my hurt to not forgive. I have forgotten to look up always, and every morning when I’m ravenous, to the One who satisfies, but especially during times of distance, of pain and suffering.

I feel it right there–how my spirit babe within grows strong at the nourishing breast of the Word. It’s like a huge, tiny miracle right there on our old soft, beige couch in morning light spilling in through high, cathedral-like windows, and I’m offering my prayer, my confession right there, His body taken in my mouth.

I go ’round doling out little medicine cups of Sprite and Pedialyte, lovingly slapping cold rags on heads, tucking blankets firmly around aching bodies, kissing foreheads and hot cheeks, just prayin’ I don’t contract another round of it, and slathering Vaseline thick on cracking lips that whisper could they just have water? And I give my running-around-the-house two year old who is all better a big kiss on her baby-squishy soft cheek, just begs me nuzzle in close.

I look out the window and see them there, large black birds littering the yard, their thick, gangly red necks pecking at my children’s toys, wings beating loud, fighting for territory. I frown at their hunkering, and I don’t know why they are there, like they’re just waiting for death.

I’m not sure if it’s our illness, this misery, this decaying of life–of love–they sense, but I prance outside like a woman with fight in me and a broom and I shew those vultures away. It feels a little silly at first, but at my voice, they immediately beat away, all this blackness fleeing in morning light through the maples, and I feel loosed.

I see how powerful my voice is, how I can call on Jesus for us, for my own depravity. I swallow down the huge, tiny miracle that God has sustained me and when he walks in the door, I won’t resent him. I will love him.

Whoa, sharing all of this, with quaking and trembling, asking God to undo these chains, loosen these fears in the confession…        
**This post shared with Husband’s permission, and I hope you will join me, friends, as I continue to write on marriage this week. God is leading my heart there, whispering to me, wooing me….

Still counting gifts in gratitude to my Father… {1,020-1036}.. This is good for the soul, no?

For fears relieved, for Lilly trying so hard to say a word for me, how her voice sounds so tiny, for all of us being so sick and getting the rest we need, for making up in the night, for snuggling, the way they all gather and lay on me when I lie down, how good it feels to nurture their little hearts, for Ivy cleaning my bedroom and laundry room without being asked just to cheer me up, for a break from routine and just long rest, watching movies together, cuddling, folding clothes, for Husband bringing home chicken noodle soup, sprite, and crackers for days in a row, for all of us learning to take care of one another, for God’s freedom, for the power He’s placed within and knowing I can access it–call upon Jesus’ name…

Linking with Amber, Ann, EmilyLaura, Jen, LL, and Heather for Just Write

Also linking up with The Nester, and all the other 31-Dayers.…This ought to be one wild, brave ride…

Do you struggle with fear– of him leaving, of marriage not turning out quite like you thought? Of this love not playing out, not feeling the way you imagined it should feel, not fulfilling you the way you imagined it would? Please tell me your story? Have you seen God redeem these fears in your marriage? Have you found grace? Your comments so encourage me. I draw strength from your kind words and knowing you were here. My faith walk is seasoned with the right ingredients when you hang around…

This is one post in a series of 31 days of Fear. You can find the entire 31 Day collective here. {I’ve jumped from Day 12 to Day 22 because I want to finish this series at the end of the month & this gal started late}

I hope you will come with me on this journey–to get a taste of glorious redemption as I soul-search and look for Jesus smack-dab in the middle of my fears. And Jesus sits with sinners. I won’t have to look very far.

I pray God gives me the strength and the courage to complete 31 days–y’all, it’s going to be hard on this ‘ol gal to write Pray for me?   

Some other 31 Day collectives I’m loving: Shelly @ Redemptions BeautyAmber Haines , and Lisa-Jo

25 thoughts on “An Abstraction on the Chain {Fear Day 22}”

  1. His mercies are new every morning…if we can think of this…new every morning…and if we can too extend new mercies every morning to those we love…carrying nothing from the previous day into our new day…these two kind of mercies walk hand and hand. God loves you so…and so do I~

  2. stopped in from Ann's.
    thank God for freedom and grace and peace and love, real Love.
    i too shared the blatant truth today. sometimes truth is hard to swallow and even more difficult to spit out. but praise Him, His ultimate Truth is always there, steadfast.
    praying for you now as the fear gives way to faith, as the focus returns to Him alone.
    Blessings grateful friend,

  3. oh, dear Nacole, so glad you found Him, who will never ever leave you, and that He enabled you to give grace to your man…praying God upholds you and your lovelies during this time of not feeling well…During my lonely times, I am learning to lean more on Him, and asking Him to show me how to communicate to my man what I need…it is a dance…learning to dance…hugs to you, Nacole 🙂

  4. Oh dear one, praying the chains are loosed in the sharing. I find such beauty, though you are hurting, in these words of yours. They talk, they whisper, they shout, they are full of life and so are you dear girl. Please know I am praying. For healing in all areas. Your honesty and vulnerability, though shake you and tremble you, are surely an offering to God. And May He be glorified in the telling.

    Thinking of you moment by moment.


  5. Oh, Nacole, I feel the weight in this–the heaviness and weariness. And you are so brave, so very brave to keep battling back by clinging to grace when everyone is so sick and weary surrounding you. I continue to be convinced that sin wounded us in mind, body, and soul, and each can wear us down.

    My favorite part of this is you chasing the birds away with the broom. That's an image of a woman who is kicking the enemy to the curb! You go, girl! Much love.

  6. When I realized that my husband couldn't fill that huge gaping emptiness full of all those things that tear at me – and I realized that only God could fill it – it took a lot of the pressure off of both of us. It took a long, long time for me to realize that my husband wouldn't walk out on me – that's being a child of divorce filled me with – that kind of fear. Praying that you shake off those shackles of fear. The letting go of those fears was a journey for me – praying your journey to that point is short!

    P.S. in being honest, being brave, taking off masks and revealing ourselves, we often find that we are not alone – you are not alone!

  7. The image of you with that broom, shooing the blackness — oh, I love it. And the power behind your own voice, calling for help. Wow.
    Thanks for your authenticity here, Nacole. Such a beautiful, real post.

  8. t, Oh goodness. I read your blatant truth–and it was so telling and honest. And yes, the truth is so hard to tell–it takes me almost all day sometimes when I'm writing. *Thank you* for your prayers. I *feel* them, friend.

  9. Oh, this is beautiful Elizabeth. It takes my breath away to read your grace-words. Oh, my, whispering, yes, yes, *thank you* for the prayers friend.

  10. Nancy, you are amazing–I love you, friend. Your favorite part was me chasing the birds away with the broom? That was a moment close to my heart–how God used it as a metaphor and spoke to me. But I felt silly writing it down–a woman chases birds. How crazy do you have to be to chase birds with a broom in your back yard? I'm so glad you get me, Nancy.

  11. Thank you, sweet (((Lindsey))). It's so good to see you here. Your words make the heart warm, and this little place of mine is warmer for you being here. Blessings.

  12. Mary leigh,

    How you bless me. It's been way too, too long, friend. I've missed you–but I have noticed your faithful commenting here, and I so appreciate that–we need to get back in touch by email soon. I am so grateful for all of your encouragement. That I'm not alone–that's what I needed to know–*whispering thank you* for that, ML. Love you.

  13. Ah, yes, the power behind my voice. Oh, that one got me, too, Kelli. I don't even realize these things until I write them, and God speaks so powerfully into me–isn't that why we write, friend? Love you.

  14. I'm in awe that you wrote this amidst the sickness and anxiety. What a beautiful, honest post written from a heart after Him. Hope everyone is on the mend, all the heaviness shoo'd away. Sending a big squeeze from over here.

  15. Oh, Nacole. This is such raw, honest beauty. I love the picture of you with that broom, you putting words to our fears that the darkness we don't want will descend upon us and not leave, that the things we want most will leave us behind. Thank you, thank you. So glad I stopped in here. Wish I could stay much longer today. Sending love and more and more courage. This is gift.

  16. Came over from Amber's today and I want you to know that I am praying right now. Blessed by your honesty and your voice here. I have this stronghold too. . these places where I know I still haven't forgiven and they strangle the life out of me. I know. And I too need to remember to look up.

  17. oh nacole. how i ache for you. it can be SO hard to have a house full of sick babies and then to have a husband who wounds you (unintentionally, but it happens nonetheless) and then you wound him and everything feels injured. may you know light. may you all know healing.

  18. I applaud your bravery and willingness to let us in. The truth of your words were heavy, but we have all been there in moments when the stress of life crushed us into someone we didn't recognize. What helps heal us is the sharing of experiences, so we know we are not alone. And that image of you shooing the vultures away was fantastic and powerful.

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