The other night, I was awakened from a dream riding a wave of panic. I can’t describe to you exactly what was happening in the dream-- I was on a hillside with a group of people. The sky was red, and there was a general sense of dread in the air. There may have been fireballs in the sky. You know how dreams are.
With eyes wide open, I laid under a single summer sheet next to my husband’s soft snore, waiting for my heart rate to slow. The apocalyptic visions kept swirling to the front of my mind, and I could feel my nervous system activating.
This wasn’t my first panic attack, in fact, I used to suffer from debilitating anxiety that would manifest physically at unpredictable times in the form of heart racing, chest pains, numbness, a general feeling that I was dying. As the lone survivor of my family of origin, my parents having been the last to depart when I was twenty-eight, I have struggled with many deep and disturbing existential questions. I have spent many hours in various kinds of therapy working my way through these issues. I thought I had them beat.
But that night, lying there with my heart in a knot, I felt back at square one. I got out of bed and walked quietly downstairs. I turned on a light, sat down in the big, ugly recliner that was my dad’s, and practiced identifying physical things in the room, a trick one therapist taught me for grounding myself. But, like a shadow on the wall, the dread kept growing.
Like many exvangelical Christians in my generation, I’ve been going through an intense period of deconstruction of my belief system. God has felt elusive to me, though ever on my mind. In moments like these, I want God to show up in a bolt of lightning, or an overwhelming sense of calm, even a whisper in the dark, but these things never happened for me.
I evaluated taking a Xanax, which has been prescribed to me for such times as these, or taking a shot of whiskey, which I’ve often prescribed to myself for such times as these, but neither seemed to be the antidote I was looking for.
Looking beside me, I noticed a coffee table book I’d purchased a while back, an artful version of the biblical Psalms paired with hip, inspiring photographs. This is what a good Christian would do, I thought. Read the Bible and God will show up.
I fought the impulse for a moment, wanting God to be bigger than the Bible, but realized I had little to lose. Perhaps God would acknowledge my desperation and honor my feeble attempts. The book fell open to Psalm 40.
I waited patiently for the Lord;
he turned to me and heard my cry.
He lifted me out of the slimy pit,
out of the mud and mire;
he set my feet on a rock
and gave me a firm place to stand.
He put a new song in my mouth,
a hymn of praise to our God.
Many will see and fear the Lord
and put their trust in him.
Blessed is the one
who trusts in the Lord,
who does not look to the proud,
to those who turn aside to false gods.
Many, Lord my God,
are the wonders you have done,
the things you planned for us.
None can compare with you;
were I to speak and tell of your deeds,
they would be too many to declare.
Sacrifice and offering you did not desire—
but my ears you have opened—
burnt offerings and sin offerings you did not require.
Then I said, “Here I am, I have come—
it is written about me in the scroll.
I desire to do your will, my God;
your law is within my heart.”
I proclaim your saving acts in the great assembly;
I do not seal my lips, Lord,
as you know.
I do not hide your righteousness in my heart;
I speak of your faithfulness and your saving help.
I do not conceal your love and your faithfulness
from the great assembly.
Do not withhold your mercy from me, Lord;
may your love and faithfulness always protect me.
For troubles without number surround me;
my sins have overtaken me, and I cannot see.
They are more than the hairs of my head,
and my heart fails within me.
Be pleased to save me, Lord;
come quickly, Lord, to help me.
May all who want to take my life
be put to shame and confusion;
may all who desire my ruin
be turned back in disgrace.
May those who say to me, “Aha! Aha!”
be appalled at their own shame.
But may all who seek you
rejoice and be glad in you;
may those who long for your saving help always say,
“The Lord is great!”
But as for me, I am poor and needy;
may the Lord think of me.
You are my help and my deliverer;
you are my God, do not delay.
Over and over, I read the words (substituting the ‘he’ pronouns with ‘she’ because I’m practicing not gender specifying God). I let them become an extended mantra. My heart calmed, my body relaxed, my breath slowed.
And surprisingly, instead of the presence of God showing up, I had a close encounter of another kind. I felt the presence of the psalmist. I felt a connection across space and time to another human, in another time, in a far off place, feeling the same desperation I was feeling. I realized that I had a choice to make. I could choose despair, believing that when life ended that was the true end, full stop. Or, I could choose to hope in the mystery of God, embracing the mystery of something that cannot be proven, but can only be believed.
A choice. I couldn’t rely on being convinced. I couldn’t stand on logic. Hope is a simple choice. And the remaining option was to despair, which just felt bleak.
And then, the song U2 wrote using Psalm 40 in their lyrics became an earworm that eventually lulled me back to sleep. “I will sing, sing a new song…”
I woke up the next morning, between the arms of my dad’s old chair, feeling held. I’ve since pondered the idea of God making herself known to us as humans. I’ve been mulling over the Biblical notion that we are each created in the image of God. So, if that’s true, we have an opportunity to encounter God through every other human, even the ancients who have left the earthly realm long ago, leaving only their ponderings behind. It makes me feel that the antidote to despair, the very secret to holding on to hope, is human connection. The daily, mundane opportunities we have to encounter the heart of God, are hidden in flesh and bone.