The Robes

  "Coming up behind Jesus, she (the woman who had bled for 12 years) touched the fringe of His robe." Luke 9:44

  And she was healed.

  

  Right before we were to start playing the worship music on Sunday, this ole flute player had a full on panic attack. The warning signs had been building all morning, in the busyness of setting up, not being able to join the Thanksgiving crowd who gathered before the service...too loud, too busy. Even during pre-service practice, I could feel the fight/flight adrenaline rush gaining momentum. As the congregation filed in, the tears and shakes started. I ducked behind the stage curtain for a brief moment, just long enough to squash them down.

  As the welcome talk was said, I reached back to touch the stage curtain, desperately looking for something to help. It's rough and heavy and provided a connection with the here and now. I imagined my fingers had brushed against the robes of Jesus just like the woman who bled for such a long time. In the midst of it all, my soul smiled briefly at the sheer, but childishly delightful, audacity of imagining such a thing.

  It was enough to provide an ability to focus on the notes that needed playing. Part of such an attack is an impact on the ability to see or focus on what is being seen. It's like having your thinking brain put in a blender.

  There was no joy in worship. It was a hard, long haul. 

  The little sketchbook got me through the rest of the service. The screaming heebie jeebies were less than a breath away. Waiting for the end of church was another long, hard haul.

  My friend let the worship leader know I had to leave right after instead of helping pack up. The moment the car door closed, the tears finally came. They were complicated tears: exhaustion and the five stages of grief all rolled into one drop.

  It's been two days and there are still aftershocks finding their way to the surface but there's also been a great deal of thought regarding all of this. 

  The team leader messaged me later, thanking me for "pushing through" and playing. It's left me wondering why quitting was not an option. This isn't the first time, either.

  What would have happened had I simply spoken up and told everyone that I had to leave or, at the very least, required a few moments to get my S#%* together?

  More importantly, why did I think I couldn't?

  Pushing through is not kind. Maybe it should be called "punishing through" instead. 

  (Long, long, looooong pause...)

  Why didn't it feel safe for me to say something? 

  I would have loved nothing more than to have put down my flute and wrapped myself in the stage curtains. It would have been safe there, tucked into the robes of Jesus. 

  The world could have waited. The clock could have, too. But that's not what I have been taught, is it my Lord? They always come first, no matter the cost.

  I'll close off today (as more tears come) with a drawing done yesterday. It started off being a pile of stones. They represented the weight of all of the things which cause panic attacks. But, in case you never noticed piles of stones in a field before, it's where trees grow. That's why there is one tree in the middle of a plowed field. It's where the stones have been piled. 

  God is good. AMEN!