Jesus or His bread?

I laid in bed last night and tried to open my heart to Him. I tried to tell Him what I was feeling and articulate what I was longing for or aching for but there was just this sadness.  A weariness.  So I closed my eyes and went to sleep banking on new mercies.

And here they are to meet me.  Not in the way I would prefer, which is waking up feeling good and clear and excited about the week ahead.

Letter to an anxious heart

Dear Fabs,

I know you hate it. I know you hate that panicky feeling that sets in when you watch people leave the conversation and you know you won’t be able to control what they do next. I know you hate that fierce flash of anger that floods your soul and offers to protect you from the fear you actually feel when you hear what someone else is saying about you; how they’re telling your story with words that feel wrong and inaccurate.



That is the thing I ache for. the thing that I lack that keeps me up at night.

I am not afraid of physical dangers (except serial killers and great white sharks – BUT IT IS RIGHT TO FEAR SUCH THINGS).  I am not afraid of bugs. I am not afraid of sadness. I am not afraid of relationships.

I am afraid of being belittled.   I fear the feeling of littleness that comes from having dignity stripped away.  Your voice being taken from you.  Not being heard or believed.  I am afraid of that happening to people I love and I am afraid of that happening to me.