WHEN IT ALL BECOMES TOO MUCH

I rock on my front porch, a warm, humid breeze occasionally brings relief from the summer’s heat. The sway of the rocker is soothing, an emotional echo of long ago when closeness and swaying calmed and assured my every need.

My eyes mindlessly watch the cars hurrying past, as if our world were not totally falling apart, as if getting to work on time or picking up groceries were still the most pressing matters of the day.

Birds trill in the distance, those little panic-rebels who defy shutdowns and pandemics and sing and fly and nest. I can hear their songs, but I cannot see them. They are driven to the shade as well, swayed by the wind in the branches.

I feel simultaneously at rest and anxious. I am charmed by the serenity of my surroundings, but my mind is aware of the growing unrest and instability. I feel edgy, alert, and dancing around the edges of what I can only call grief.

And so I rock.

I feel the fragility of all this peaceful beauty, as if at any moment a pebble will be thrown into it, fracturing its reflection and distorting its calm.

Nothing seems certain.

And so I rock.

The grass in the meadows has grown so tall. Our farming neighbor has still not cut it to dry and roll into perfectly-formed bales of hay.

I love the sight of a bale-dotted field. It speaks of order and care and purpose. It is a comfortable summer cycle marking time with its familiarity and rhythm.

The tall grasses sway in the wind, resembling ocean waves of greenish-yellow, daisies and buttercups flashing through their currents.

But today their presence unsettles me. They need to be cut and baled and hauled away. The rhythm is off. I cannot find my pace.

I rock a little more.

My heart is weighed down with a collective sorrow. I walk around heavy with it. I feel often on the verge of sobbing, though I could not explain why. I feel fear prickling at the edges of my soul, trying to find a way in, to settle.

But then I think: I am here for such a time as this. God placed me here at this cultural moment. I do not need to fear it; I need to be fully present in it.

Sometimes living takes courage. Sometimes we rock for a bit, we breathe, we draw close, then we get up and keep going, despite the unmown fields and masks and empty store shelves—we move into the need with hearts full of compassion, like Jesus did. The masses, so fickle in their beliefs and loyalties and motivations, and yet He always showed up.

I cannot rock my life away.

I have to show up and live it.

But today, I will rock a little while longer. I will calm my soul with the lullaby of a bird and the rustling of a leaf.

Sometimes one must be a child before going out a warrior.