November 30, 2015
Lauren told me about the time she was doing a little skit. I don’t even remember when this was and she doesn’t remember the details either. When I asked her to flesh out the story and what kind of character she was playing, she said “I dunno. I was just some girl.”
I’m not ok with her being “just some girl.” I’ve been thinking about the way I say “just” too often. It minimizes my thoughts and diminishes my intentions. I don’t like it. I say it all the time in my prayers as though I just need God to do His bare minimum and it would be scandalous for me to ask more of Him.
Lauren has been struggling more with her anxiety lately. It seemed like she kinda had it under control. She’s been so self-confident and I thought maybe, just maybe…But no. Just no.
She is home from school today. Sick? I’m not sure, but that’s what I’ll write on her note I send to school tomorrow. No fever, but there was just no way this girl could have gotten out of the car at school today and managed Safety Patrol and class. Maybe it was just too much this holiday weekend. She is pet sitting for two physically challenged dogs, we visited friends for Thanksgiving dinner on Thursday. We spent the day in the mountains getting a tree and decorating Friday. Then we had an impromptu party with 20 family members Saturday, and a second Thanksgiving meal with friends Sunday. She has 2 red spots on her skin, and like her dad, she might have psoriasis, and since Lauren never has a mild case of anything, she knows this is going to be fatal. Yes, fatal psoriasis. And the science fair project is due Wednesday. Nothing bad and nothing overwhelming. Maybe all of it was just too much.
It’s just a small thought that starts in her head. “I have to get this science fair project done just right,” and before you know it, she’s convinced she is going to fail 5th grade because her lettering isn’t straight on her board. We have to help her deconstruct the series of irrational thoughts starting with the absolute worst case scenario and working backward. Deep breaths. Focus right here on the tip of my nose. Stay with me. Breathe in 1-2-3. Hold it 1-2-3. Out 1-2-3. Stay with me, Lauren.
This morning was a doozy. It’s hard to take a paraplegic dog for a walk in the dark in the rain. And her hair wasn’t the way she wanted it, so of course she thinks her hair will never look good. Ever. She didn’t want to wear this, or that, or the other. She got fussed at for having a bad attitude, and everything snow-balled.
So we are home from school today. And really, I’m the one who is sick. Sick of anxiety. My Tenderheart walked out of her room an hour ago and said “Mommie, I’m sorry I had a bad attitude this morning.” She was frowning because she was just about to break into another cry, but she stopped herself. All she could manage, though, was just a flattened-out smile attempt and some sniffles. I told her that if Anxiety was a person, I would smack Anxiety in the head and beat her to the ground. I would laugh at Anxiety when she grabs her knotted-up belly and dry heaves into the toilet. I’d point and stare at Anxiety when she sits on my green chair in my bedroom and covers her eyes, and sticks her fingers in her mouth and pulls on her cheeks. Me, you, and Daddy could team up and we could bully Anxiety. Give that bitch a taste of her own medicine. “Why are you crying, Anxiety? Can’t you take a joke? You’re so sensitive! What’s wrong now? Can’t breathe? Is Lauren finally getting to ya? Huh? Huh? Cat got your tongue? You always do this. Drama queen! What’s your problem? Why do you have to turn everything into a big deal?”
Lauren is not just some girl. She is the wrong girl to mess with, Anxiety! In the moment, when she is scratching her face and rocking back and forth on the bathroom floor with her knees up to her chin, I just pray “God just help her with her anxiety!” Just! Just! Just! But no, I want more than just that. I want Lauren to see Christ’s foot crushing the head of Anxiety for her. I want her to hear God speaking every Old Testament promise in her ear. I want Lauren to feel the New Testament fulfillment of those promises becoming truth inside her. I want her to know that God never made her to be just some girl. She is the daughter of the Most High King who breathed Jupiter and Mars and the Pfafftown into existence with His breath. And she is God’s Eve who has been given a way back into the Garden. His Wow! My Lovely is God’s Very Good creation. And He is pleased with her. She will not fail 5th grade. She is rocking her hairstyle. Psoriasis isn’t fatal. We will do laundry, and she can have her favorite outfit tomorrow.