(via Pinterest)
I wonder what happens when a person just needs some outflow; just needs to press her trembling fingers against warm and pulsating keys, and watch as somehow, someway, words are formed and transmitted onto the glaring computer screen. I don't mean 'glaring' as in, "staring in a fiercely or angrily piercing manner," like the rest of my world seems to be doing right now (my perception is off, I'm quite aware), but rather, "shining with or reflecting a harshly bright or brilliant light." I wonder if this person has any ability left in her to make actual sense to the world. I'm writing anyhow. Because when you're a writer, that's just what you have to do when things go wrong. I've had my decaf cup of hazelnut coffee for the day, so if I'm looking for liquid comfort, tea will have to do, and this isn't one of those times when I'm willing to settle for tea.
Before you close this tab, writing me off as one of those random people who just say whatever they're thinking and then post it on a blog, I have an excuse. I swear I do. I'm a generally emotional person, and when you put an emotional person in a mild but scary car accident in December, they don't tend to think, speak, or write rationally. But, oh, how I need to write. Because I don't want to cry. I need to process this all in some form or fashion, because if I don't, it will stay there, inside me, and it will break me. Because I know that in my current state of trauma and shock, I might just refuse to step into a vehicle until all the snow has melted and I can see tulips and daffodils that tell me everything's okay, and maybe not even then, because accidents still happen, and this is what makes people have agoraphobia, for Pete's sake.
So I process. I try to breathe. I make my shaking hands do what I tell them to, and I try to focus. What can I write about? I don't want to write selfishly because what is the point of that? What good does a blog do if it is simply a place to vent out emotions and cope with reality? I mean, it might help me, but the point of this particular blog is to help others. In order to do that, I must be open. I have to be willing to speak in the middle of the storm and learn my lesson, and not just give a pep talk after the storm is over and the lesson is learned.
A car swerves wildly in my brain and I lose mental focus. That's what happens when you're not as okay as you claim to be.
I can't help thinking of how unplanned the result of this evening was. I was supposed to be in a church, watching children's faces beam and hearing choirs sing. I was supposed to be singing with them. And then a relaxing night of I Love Lucy with a sweet friend. How happy; how normal; how relaxing my plans were. I also wasn't supposed to post anything today. Maybe write a post, if I had time, 'cause I'm the extra-prepared type that does that; that has four posts already scheduled for next week, because what if something happens? Well, something happened.
I still see my brain's impression of the flashing lights from the police car, the ambulance, the fire truck ... every time I close my eyes. So I don't close my eyes.
My hands still aren't doing as they're told. I told them specifically to type logical, well thought out words. The kind that make sense, you know?
Deep inside, I know that this is helping. My heart rate is slowing down to its normal rate. The pain reliever is starting to dull that pounding headache. It's all gonna be okay. No one was severely injured, so I exhale thanksgiving, but what do I breathe in? Somebody tell me, what do I breathe in?! (I'm near panic now, but I'm guessing that was obvious.) Really, I feel like someone is supposed to roll their eyes, hand me a paper bag, and explain to the bystanders that "Miss Hart just sometimes forgets how to breathe." She does, you know. I feel that gentle touch, and in that still, small voice, I hear, not condemnation, not frustration, but peace. "Breathe in grace," He tells me. And I am reminded of how Ann Voskamp always mentions that God's very name; Yahweh; YHWH ... it is the sound of our breathing. When we simply remember to breathe, we say His name; we call out in our almost silence for help from Him who created us. I dare breathe again. What an anomaly, how these slow, quiet breaths can bring peace; inhaling grace, exhaling thanks.
And now, somehow, it all makes sense.

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