One of the biggest things I fear is death. I know that it is
something I shouldn’t fear; I should be able to stare at the Grim Reaper
straight in his cold, soulless eyes and say, “Bring it on! I’m going
straight to the top, and there isn’t anything you can do to stop me!”
But sometimes my “unshakable faith” can get pretty shakable. So many
“what ifs” start to pop up, like those weeds in your flower garden that
never seem to go away, no matter how many times you try to kill them.
They can choke you, squeezing and squeezing, wrapping tighter and
tighter around you...until there’s no air to breath, and hope seems
lost. “What if I go blind, deaf, or lose a limb?” “I could lose my
hair, my mind, or my life.” “What if I get in a car accident, get
mugged, raped, shot?” Sometimes my brain feels like it will explode
under the pressure of these bottled up fears that are swirling around
faster and faster, and growing in size and force.
I
fear the uncertainty and defenselessness that comes from not knowing
what could happen with my life. I’m not ready to die. I’m not ready to
tell my family, bald from the chemotherapy, weak from the drugs in my
last moments of life, that I love them, and to never give up; never lose
hope or faith. Will I be able to laugh when I lose a husband, child,
parent or friend? Am I ready for that despair, that empty black
nothingness that threatens to swallow me and never release? I don’t know.
Every day, change happens, both good and bad. And while some people
just live life with a “come what may” attitude, I live by creating
scenarios.
Scenario #1: A baby enters the world; it’s
a girl! The parents are overjoyed, so in love with this bundle of life
that has been given to them. Already the mother can see her taking her
first steps across the living room, up the stairs, into school, across
the stage and down the aisle. For a moment, the future flashes before
her eyes; a short film recap of the wonderful events to come in this
family and infant’s life.
Scenario #2: Across the
hall, a couple waits for someone to come with news, something, anything
but this overwhelming silence and the ticking of the clock on the
opposite wall. Tick Tick Tick. The clock itself seems to
represent a time bomb that is bound to go off any minute, and the
contents of it will explode, each piece of shrapnel flying off in every
which way to plant its destructive contents deep into the lives of the
unsuspecting. The husband’s eyes are sunken, and one look into his face
will tell a story of many sleepless nights, and numerous trips to the
hospital in the back of an ambulance with his wife sobbing at his side.
And now here he is, in this waiting room that feels more like a holding
cell, a prison for all his fear and doubts, waiting with his wife to
hear the news of their premature baby girl, born with heart, lung and
brain complications. Doctors don’t know if she’ll make it through the
next night, the next surgery, or even the next hour. And as their
daughter fights for a life she may not keep, the father calculates the
figures: Three jobs should keep them above ground, and will pay for the
diapers, bottles, formula, clothes, and surgeries. More and more
surgeries. But all he can do is sit waiting in that room with the nurse
and her sad smile, his wife, and watch the clock on the opposite wall,
living every second in fear that that knob will turn, praying it does
yet hoping it doesn’t.
I fear having the inability to
move on, to pick myself up off the floor, dust my hands and keep on
walking, moving forward and further down the path that I have chosen for
myself. Sometimes life feels like a moonlit drive, cruising down a
back road with the scent of honeysuckle in your nose. Everything is as
it should be. The stars are out, and the night air caresses your skin,
when suddenly you hit a roadblock, a deer perhaps, throwing a wrench in
your plans, the perfect blueprints that you spent so much time and
effort creating. As you stare down at the wreckage that you call your
life, sometimes it feels impossible to keep going onward, to not retreat
and back up into a hole and stay there forever in a hibernation that
will last through this never ending winter. And you get so sleepy, so
tired of all this noise and hurt and anger. Why wake up? Just sleep,
sleep and forget all these problems, all these roadblocks with their
bright signs, urging you to pick up your shattered self and move along
down some road, some path that’s anywhere but here.
Everywhere, everyday, all the time, change is happening. And that
frightens me. And sometimes it’s hard to take that gamble, to trust in
someone that you cannot see. Because this time you’re going to have to
put your heart on the line, lead with your faith and leap. Leap into
the vast unknown, a place where many voyagers seem to never return
from. Some people shipwreck, you see, and start to drown in the turmoil
of their sorrows that is brought from this change. They sink deeper
and deeper, not having the faith, the courage, or the guts to reach out
and take His hand.
But just when it seems that
nothing can change, that you can never reassemble the shards of yourself
scattered in every direction, that is when you get down on your knees.
You pray to God, to Allah, to the creator of the universe for the
strength needed to go on, and change that fear to faith. And slowly, so
slowly, that faith will move the mountains of fear looming over you
from all sides, stone after stone, pebble after pebble, until you will
again see that path, straight and narrow, leading you back to the one
place you long to be: home.
