Today's guest post is from Andrea Levendusky, one of my oldest and dearest friends. I told her yesterday I would never stop loving her and there are few people I think I can really, really say that to and mean it. This girl is a journey-walker with me and I love her for it. She blogs here.
I'm obsessed with the trail of sugar ants that are streaming into my living room from under the baseboard. And by obsessed, I mean, neurotic. I mean: I close my eyes and I feel ants crawling on my eye lids, under my knees and down my back.
One little half-eaten lollipop forgotten and left under a chair has led us into this mayhem and epic battle of man vs. creature. Because I can even step on them and they don't die. I mean, what kind of creature can withstand the power of a frightened, human foot?
CREATURES WITH THORAXES. (Gross.)
I fall asleep thinking about them. I wake up thinking about them. I started my plan of attack by researching organic methods to calmly rid my home of them. And a few aggravating days later, I find myself frantically grabbing RAID and the most chemically-damaging, possibly cancer-causing repellents and traps I can find. My living room is surrounded with small black traps and gooey Borax solution, luring the tiny creatures in.
Killing a colony of ants is no small feat. I can kill a few but the truth lies in the dark of what I can't see. The source of their home. The queen who waits to be fed and nourished and the reinforcements are sent out hourly, and I pace the four corners of my living room to see if we're seeing any progress.
If only I had just seen that half-eaten lollipop, I tell myself.
Last night, I laid awake in bed with my heart pounding in my chest. I felt it in my throat, in my temples, and down to my finger tips. Sometimes I forget how to breathe when anxiety sets in, so I closed my eyes and tried to settle my heart in silence.
We are in a season of change, my daughter and I. Moving, school changes, career changes, relationship changes, traveling, planning, events, church, community… and at night, when my heart is pounding, I try to find the root. I try to find the source. I want to name the one thing that has left me spinning and then problem solve to cure it.
Because somewhere in my mind, instead of taking everything to my Father in prayer, I tossed fear and worry under rugs and left half-eaten hopes and dreams to rot. And then the ants came. The army started in single file, then swarming, to feast on the unattended doors and cracked floorboards in my heart.
And swarm they do.
And crawl over my ever moment, they do.
Let me see your face, let me hear your voice, for your voice is sweet, and your face is lovely. Catch the foxes for us, the little foxes that spoil the vineyards, for our vineyards are in blossom. Song of Solomon 2:14-15
I lay awake and think of the foxes.
And the ants.
And all the things I let swarm and spoil the beauty of Gospel rest and trust within me.
The things that dig at the soil where I've laid my work and striving to rest.
The creatures that creep and crawl and steal and choke, and leave my heart pounding at midnight. It's then, when I'm seeing shadows dance with streetlights, that I realize I've bought into the lie that diligence to preach the Gospel to myself doesn't matter.
That I can make it a week, a day, an hour, a minute, without falling on my knees and begging for daily bread. Bread that doesn't spoil with things that seek to destroy.
"If I covet any place on earth but the dust at the foot of the cross, than I know nothing of Calvary Love." — Amy Carmichael