anxiety

The Lovely Lady leans over me late at night.

“Goodnight, Honey. I hope you don’t have to sleep with an elephant on your chest tonight.”

She says the words with a smile, but her eyes say she worries. She kisses my forehead as I sit in my easy chair coughing. Then, letting go of my hand, she leaves the room, on her way to bed.

There’s an inhaler on the table beside me. I’ll use it before I turn in for the night. I’ve used it a hundred times in the last month.

When I do, the elephant goes away—the one that sits on my chest and makes it difficult to breathe. For a while, it goes away.

But sometimes, just knowing that the Lovely Lady is touched by my discomfort makes me feel that the elephant has at least lost a few pounds of weight, even if only for a moment or two. Sympathy isn’t just something written on a card, is it?

I’d be lying if I told you it was my favorite winter activity—using that inhaler. Occasionally, I think I actually hate the thing.

But, here’s the deal: It does what I need it to do. Day after day, long night that follows long night, it gets me nearer to the close of that day when she’ll lean over me and kiss me, once again saying simply, “Goodnight. I love you.”

And, the weight will be gone from my chest. Until the next time the asthma comes to visit. Perhaps, it’ll be a long interval—maybe a year or more. I’m grateful for the periods of respite.

Do you know what a respite is? Breathing space. Really.

Breathing space.

And, I need that. Without the elephant.

But, the heaviness in my chest isn’t always caused by my physical affliction. Again and again through life, I’ve felt it—the other heaviness, I mean. Sometimes so heavy it has felt like I couldn’t take another breath.

You’ve felt it too, haven’t you?

Breathing with an elephant on your chest.

Sitting in the emergency room, waiting. Waiting for the doctor to report that everything is going to be okay.

Sitting with a phone beside you—waiting for it to ring. Or, waiting for the front door to open and your teenage child to come back through it.

And then, as has happened so much more often in recent years for me, sitting by myself in the middle of a room full of people—realizing that I’ll never hear his voice again—never again feel the touch of her hand on my shoulder.

Elephants don’t belong in rooms, much less sitting on chests. But, there we are.

And, some elephants can’t be moved by just breathing in the cure and breathing out the sickness.

The weight of anxiety and worry can’t just be exhaled into the air around our heads. The heaviness of grief won’t be dismissed with a deep sigh. And, certainly not with more tears.

Life is full of elephants.

But, it’s also full of a Savior/God who has suffered as we have—who has lived with the elephant on His chest. One who has wept shared tears of grief with his loved ones (John 11:35), and who wept His own tears of anxiety because of His children who refused to be gathered into His arms (Matthew 23:37).

And, it’s full of the God who has kept a record of the times that weight has pressed down upon us.

    “You keep track of all my sorrows.
    You have collected all my tears in your bottle.
    You have recorded each one in your book.”
(Psalm 56:8, NLT)

And ultimately, it’s full of the God who will one day lift that weight from us and who will wipe away every tear (Revelation 21:4).

Every one.

No more elephants.

Except where they belong. But, not in the room. And certainly, not on our chests.

And on that day, once again, so deeply we’ll breathe in His love and mercy.

And, we’ll freely breathe out our gratitude and praise.

I don’t think I’ll wait.

How about you?

“He will wipe every tear from their eyes, and there will be no more death or sorrow or crying or pain. All these things are gone forever.”
(Revelation 21:4, NLT)

“You know, they say an elephant never forgets. But what they don’t tell you is that you never forget an elephant. “
(Bill Murray as Jack Corcoran in the movie, Larger Than Life)

Sunday night late—the stoop seems as good a place as any to ponder.
Big things, I always choose. Tonight, all I see is the moon, and it is big enough.
Full, bright, and orange it was when earlier I stood with my love, taken with wonder.
Now murky and circled with clouds, it only warns of rain to come in the soon dawning day. Monday with rain.

How does the joy and wonder turn so suddenly to foreboding?
Where does the elation go when I am overcome with dread?
It is not only the moon and not only the night that bring the sudden turnaround.
Still. The questions remain.
How so suddenly changed?
Where can I go to retrieve the joy?
Where is the queue to reclaim peace for my soul?

I wrote the words a year ago. They were never meant to share. Not with anyone.

Two nights ago, he called me—the man who is the rock. No, really. The Rock of Gibraltar. Or, so I have believed.

His close friends, two of them, have died in the last week. Another, even closer to him, is in the terrifying uncertainty of awaiting the doctor’s report.

He is shaken. Shaken.

We talked for some time and agreed on this certainty at the end of the conversation: We know the Peace-giver. In our prayers and gratitude, He gives His peace that we cannot understand.

The Prince of Peace gives Himself.

The Prince of Peace gives Himself. Share on X

His words, fear not, are not meant as a command to be followed religiously, in fear of offense. They are the assurance of a loving parent—a promise of safety, of wholeness, of perfect rest.

They are words to comfort and not to condemn.

And, as children are wont to do, we forget. We do.

And, like a Father, He reminds again. And again.

His words are fresh every time. His arms of protection cover—every time.

Peace. I am leaving it with you. Not the kind of peace the world offers, brokered by the powerful and ensured by weapons and threats. No, my peace is a gift to hold in your heart, where no man and no circumstance can plunder it. (John 14:27)

Where anger rules, peace dissolves. Where terror dwells, peace cannot live. Where worry spreads, peace is no more.

Does it mean our hearts will never be touched by these things? By no means.

Fear may pass through, anger may swell up, anxiety may worm its way in.

But His peace reigns. Just as Peter, when we begin to sink beneath the waves, we remember who rules those waves.

As we walk through the valley of the shadow, we recall who waits for us over there.

You know—over there. Where our home—our real home—is being made ready for us.

Here is the queue to reclaim peace—in exactly the same place it was the last time.

We’re next in line. Every time.

Peace.

Shalom.

God cannot give us a happiness and peace apart from Himself, because it is not there. There is no such thing.
(C.S. Lewis ~ British theologian/author ~ 1898-1963)

And the peace of God, which passeth all understanding, shall keep your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus.
(Philippians 4:7 ~ KJV)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

Elephant in the Room

Where is the Queue?