I woke at 4 am Friday and felt the same heavy nagging I’d felt all week as I prepared to leave my family — the feeling that this preparation is really for the end.

The end of me.

In the early morning dark of the girls’ bedroom, I kissed them good-bye, and thought I am really saying good-bye, as I tried to memorize each detail of their faces, the smell of hair and skin.

I hugged Michael hard at the passenger drop off area, and I tried not to cling, as I saw hints of tears forming in his eyes. Rolling my suitcase into the compartment of the revolving door and into PDX, I felt alone.

Over the week, I had prayed and joined with others in prayer. Over and again, tried putting fear out of my mind to stand on what is real and true. Yet this, this felt not just of the head, but of the body and heart. A steady ugly spiral knitting itself into the very fibers of me.

I knew I might possibly return home after the weekend away, but prepared myself that I might not. God is my safety and protection, but that doesn’t always mean people make it back home.

Peace, I told myself, as we readied for departure. Peace.

In the air, the plane rocks and shakes like the ride down the hill to Grandma’s when I wiggled my middle so it wouldn’t fly up into my mouth.


My head is stuck to the back of my seat, my hands grip the arm rests, and I am not in control, and I am bracing myself, and we are soaring many more miles than I’d care to count above the mountains and valleys. I want peace, want it so badly.

I continue praying and look down at my gripping hands, white knuckles, and they cannot hold peace. There is no space for it.

In the dark of the cabin, in my place in this hurting world, this is about more than flying. It is about grounding. And I begin a silent prayer that moves gently across lips.

I trust you, God.

I trust you, God.

I trust you, God.

It is a slow unknotting, this — shifting mile by mile. For as I choose to trust I begin to release my death grip on this moment right here and, too, the massive unknown out there.

I am choosing to accept the truth that I am not ultimately in control of this minute, nor do I know what lies beyond the world of this seat in this plane under the arch of plastic and recirculating air, held by metal wings.

Trust to peace

I cannot will myself to feel peace no matter how hard I try, but when I trust, I begin to feel the Holy, releasing and untwisting the knots.

Trust’s release carries the whisper of peace on its wings.

Letting go makes space for all that may come in the wide open expanse ahead.

This is a continuation of my story, reflecting upon last weekend’s retreat in which a glorious group of storytellers and dreamers explored big, ridiculous, God-sized dreams. Thank you for joining me in the telling. 


* I do not intend to say that trust alleviates anxiety in all situations. We each have our own journeys and may need to pursue different forms of help and healing, as I have at various times in my life. Here, I intend to share my experience only. Bless you, friends. 

Linking today with Emily and Jennifer.


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