Breathe

Panic streams through my body.  My breath feels choked.  I MUST get out . . . now.  Ahead of me an entourage of young people block the exit.  Behind me, a tall hefty man is lodged between two sheer rock faces, blocking the entrance.  Turned sideways to make himself smaller, he inhales.  His chest heaves inward and upward providing just enough give to scuffle into the next pocket of space.

(My husband)

 I have been in these particular crevices before, the Escalante Canyons near the Lake Powell region.   The rock walls, high and narrow, shoot straight up, nearly fifty feet or more with only a narrow passageway between.  Once inside there are no alternate routes.  The canyons are mysterious and  gloriously wild.  When the sun hits them at just the right angle, their beauty takes your breath away.   And normally I love exploring them. 

My friend eventually made it out, but not without inhaling his way through the tight points.  Ever since the birth of my oldest daughter, the breath of life touches a chord somewhere deep inside me.  (see May Day)  Now whenever I witness a resuscitation elsewhere, such as in a movie, it causes me to choke up with emotion. 

All the urgency of the soul breaks to the surface in that one cry, "Breathe!"
The call echoes through the subconscious . . .
                           reaching . . .
                                   searching . . .
                                             pulling . . .
and then the wait . . .

the hope of connection, of drawing the dying back to the reality of earth. 

The pressure of the atmosphere against the lungs is what forces us to take our next breath.  Likewise, as the intensity of life presses down on us, God is calling, "Breathe!"   Prayer is my breath.  I pour out my heart to God and listen for His voice . . . inhale, exhale . . . praying without ceasing.  

(My two oldest children, Tyler and Heather, now in college)

My heart has been downcast as of late.  Roots and wings are a part of life, but the wing part is giving me sadness.  And in the long nights, when sleep evades, magnifying the loneliness, the empty spaces shout what once was . . . laughter, voices, theological discussions, glow of the light from their room . . . their presence.





It is then that I hear God's urgent cry, "Breathe, my child . . . pray!" 
                  God reaches . . .
                             searches . . .
                                  pulls . . .
and then waits . . .

the hope of connection with my heart,
of enfolding me into His presence.

Through the loneliness, God is trying to tell me something, but so often I am not listening.  He longs to draw near, to whisper sweet nothings in my ear as my beloved, but I will not have it.  Because I refuse to simply breathe . . . reach toward Him . . . pray.

Rocks do not give, in some ways much like my circumstances which are set to stay awhile.  When their walls engulf me and I panic with claustrophobia, it is then most crucial that I consciously turn to my Heavenly Father and simply cry out to Him in prayer.  Inhale. . . the only way I can find my way through, casting all my care upon Him for He cares for me. (1st Pet. 5:7)

Yes, Lord Jesus, I look to You.  Fill these empty spaces wandering around the house, suffocating, pressing in at the table, in the basement, at the kitchen sink, even in the laundry room.  Thank you for two children yet at home.  Don't let me be distracted from growing their roots deep and strong in You.