The Time Before Fear

These are the symptoms: waking up on the hour, every hour, all night; a dull headache that follows a bout of sobbing; swollen eyelids and burning eyes; loss of appetite; inability to focus; neglect of self; longing for life as is was two weeks ago. Two weeks ago, no one had accused my son of anything. His accuser "loved" him.

The cruel ugliness of it all troubled me, holding me hostage and extorting my time and attention away from who and what mattered most. When I saw the thing in truth, I stared the monstrosity in the face, shivering with a sense that evil waited to attack my son's wellness, to steal  any hope of a  future with goodness and happiness. I was tempted to succumb to the demands to pay off the accuser. "It is in your best interest," she said.

Yesterday, my colleagues noted the weary shifting of my feet as I tried to carry on with my life. They walked by my classroom several times to make sure that I was at least able to auto-pilot my way through the business of work. But the threat never left my thoughts, looming above me and consuming the air.

I dashed home from work leaving tasks undone. I had to get there. Home was where I remembered the time before fear. I could cook dinner, iron shirts, read my books, and make silly jokes like any other day. Yet home also became my strategic headquarters, where friends and family, appalled and heartsick for me, checked in to listen to me rant about the tragedy of it all. And home is where the doctor was called, the teachers informed, and the lawyer consulted.

The only solace I found was in my faith.  I found freedom in raw honesty when voicing my complaint and fears to God. Late last night, my mothering heart reached back for better times, and I knew God was present as I remembered the moment my son was born and the promise of each milestone since that day. I relived his accomplishments and mentally caressed his medals and certificates.

Scriptures leaped into my thoughts. Grasping each one, I spoke the words aloud, which calmed me. The memories shifted to conversations with my son.  Smiles, laughter, even serious expressions gave me a fresh appreciation for every second of time we have spent together. None of the accolades mattered now. All of the big events I have enjoyed over the years became secondary.  I didn't care about success; I was praying  for his very life. I'm not alone.  Did not Rachel, even from heaven, weep for her Joseph? How did Mary bear the Roman cross?

I fell asleep semi-peacefully, determined to square off again when I awoke. God help me, that's what mothers do.