Goodness, Grounded: Day 1 ~ Say the Quiet Part Out Loud

Asking Good Questions and Telling the Truth

I saw it come over her before bed; the cloud that brings unexplainable dread. A cloud I know too well. A cloud I hate more than anything I have ever experienced. It is not the first time she has come to my bedside after dark to seek me for comfort. I know she wants relief from the confusing sense of panic she feels in her body more than anything, but the best I have to offer at the moment is my attentive presence and my prayers.

I rise from my bed and meet her in the living room where we can talk in quiet voices without disrupting the sleep of others. I pull her close in the corner seat of the couch, a place I have come with my own anxiety, tears, and unrest many a midnight. The house is all dark, and I pretend for a moment she is not a double-digit kid, and I draw her close like I did when she was younger. Her legs are impossibly long now, and I honestly can’t figure out how she became a half grown woman overnight.

All the older moms say how fast the time goes, but until it started happening to me—whole years slipping by and new horizons popping up around every bend—I really didn’t understand. Well, now I do. I guess that makes me an older mom now, and I will tell you younger moms, obnoxiously, the time goes quicker than you can imagine.

But I won’t tell you to cherish it all. I mean, I hope you do in whatever way you have the capacity for, but you need to know that the early years are incredibly full of foundation-laying, skill-building, establishing and cultivating wisdom, resilience, communication, and patience—all things I guarantee you will need in even greater measure when your toddlers transform into teenagers before your eyes.

I ask her what is going on. Why is she sad? Why is she troubled?

She shrugs and I know she does have the words sorted out to say exactly what. Especially when its that anxiety thing. Even when some words come out, it is never the whole story. It feels too scary to say out loud, to acknowledge the magnitude of the fear inside, to voice the reality that the ominous cloud has landed.

“I just feel…really scared.”

“I know,” I say. And I think to myself, I know exactly how you feel.

A few years ago, I had several consecutive months when I could not sleep at night, almost every night. I might have had a perfectly fine day, nothing upsetting, but when I went to turn the lights out, a surge of something heavy and terrible and nebulous would hit me and send me into hours of uncomfortable struggle against something I could not really pin down. I couldn’t say exactly what it was, and I was unable to find words that would do it justice. Not being able to find words has truly never been a problem for me, but during that season, I just could not really say out loud exactly what was going on.

All I knew is I felt terrified, for seemingly no reason, and I felt my whole body was hijacked with weird pains and unfamiliar sensations that continued to fuel the downward spiral. I spent a lot of hours crying in the dark. I often called my dad on the phone after midnight, just to have someone “with” me, even though he was hours away. He would ask good questions, sometimes to probe, sometimes to distract me. He ministered to me in the most direct way, reading me scriptures and reminding me of true things. He prayed for me often, and his attentive presence was deeply comforting at the most critical times. That terrible season has fortunately passed for me, but knowing my sweet daughter has similar experiences at her young age is hard.

In John 5, Jesus asks a peculiar question to a man who is said to have been ill for 38 years. The man has been waiting by a healing pool, hoping to be healed of his afflictions in the moving of the waters, if only someone would help him in. Jesus asks him, “Do you wish to get well?”

The man says, “No one will help me,” which is to say, yes, I want to get well, but I need help.

Clearly the man has some hope that he can be made well, or he would not be by the pool. But why does Jesus ask this question?

This is a question that was also asked of me, back when things were extra rough. It felt kind of dumb that someone would ask me that. Of course I want to get well. But a well-asked question does much more than solicit an answer. A well-asked question provokes thoughts. Stirs hope. Catalyzes belief. And belief is needed to respond to God in faith.

I think this question prepared the afflicted man to respond in faith when Jesus commanded him to get up, pick up his pallet, and walk. Which he did, immediately.

Think about it. In order for him to actually walk, he had to make a decision in that moment to either reject the command Jesus gave, or to acknowledge the authority Jesus had to both give this command (on the Sabbath, no less) and to substantiate the command with His own power to enable the man to walk.

This tells me that what we long for is not the same as what we hope for.

This tells me that hope is something much more substantial than a wish, that hope is something that “moves the needle” when our hope is in Someone (and let’s be clear, Jesus) who has the power to accomplish what we ourselves do not.

When the cloud lands, I try to ask my daughter good questions. I try to remind her of true things and teach her about the power of Jesus to overcome darkness, anxiety, and fear. How Jesus has given her the ability to call on His name, and how she can take refuge in Him, proactively, in prayer, whenever she feels afraid.

I have learned, from experience, the authority of Jesus is not hypothetical. It is not conjecture. It is not empty. The authority and power of Jesus cannot be matched by anyone or anything. Anywhere. And—this being true—our trust in Him is warranted. It is reasonable. It is profoundly wise to trust Him.

So what do I do with the weakness I feel in myself? (Ah, I’m getting more skilled at these well-asked questions.)

I feast on the truth. I make reading scripture a high priority, because if I read it, I can rehearse it. I can replay it. I can practice it. I can remind myself. I can agree with God. I can stir up my hope in Him. I can share it with my friends. I can whisper it to my daughter in the dark and watch the cloud break and the light come through.

And when either of us feel afraid again, we can go back to the source over and over and over, for a continual supply of what we need to endure, to acknowledge our fear and set it aside for something greater to behold. The quiet part I want to say out loud is: Jesus is worthy of our trust, even when the night is dark.