Was it dead? Alive?
Did I even know what it was?
At first glance I thought some species of leaf had traveled on the wind and plastered itself against the glass surrounding my front door. The rain we’d had supported that scenario. But then, when I put my face right up against the window pane, I could see the outline of an abdomen, as well as two sets of wings, mirror-imaging each other. What I was looking at was not the remnant of a tree, but a creature unto itself. It lay so still, however, that I wondered whether it had already been cut off from life when I had discovered it, so that I was looking at remains, rather than a fellow inhabitant of planet Earth, drawing breath with me.
It stayed on the window, completely immobile, for the next few days. During that time, I coaxed my 11-year-old, autistic son to draw near and take a good look. He is absolutely terrified of butterflies for some reason. (We think it has something to do with their irregular flight patterns.) But this moth wasn’t going to “get” him, he figured out as he brought his face close and touched the glass. I took pleasure in watching him do this, knowing with absolute certainty that this special moment afforded him an opportunity to engage his insect nemesis in wonder rather than fear.
It was also a relief that my son’s interaction with the moth would prove to be a “plus” for him, because his lack of self-awareness so often puts him in “minus” situations where he could truly get hurt. No matter how many times we try to teach him how to cross the street safely or that he should stay near us in crowds, he has not yet demonstrated an understanding of how he might be hit by a moving vehicle or snatched by people who might mean him harm. Being mostly nonverbal compounds the situation. He doesn’t call out for “mama” or “dada” when we are out, nor does he answer to his name. Nor does he check periodically to see where we are, so absorbed does he become in his own interests.
Truthfully, my son is blissfully happy. And just as truthfully, his father and I stress. And stress. And stress some more. We don’t know whether he will ever learn what he needs to navigate his world better. We can only pray that God protects him where he is most vulnerable. Some days those prayers of protection seem more effective than others. Some days it feels like mere whistling in the wind.
This dance of dread that my son does with butterflies reminds me of an irrational yet deeply entrenched defense mechanism that I employ to keep myself “safe” from what I dread. When something goes my way or I make progress in a specific area, I become loathe to talk about it. The more I triumph, the more I clam up. When I should be thanking others—and God—for the good that is happening, I instead act as though any acknowledgment of improvement might prove to be dangerous, might lead to the blessing being taken away from me. In essence, I act as though I am going to have to “pay,” sooner or later, for any sliver of providence I openly enjoy. No free lunches and all that.
King David wrote a psalm that travels in the opposite psychological direction. I would call it a “Call to Action” poem, in which the poet urges his audience to follow his example and stir up trust in God by openly recalling His role as a Deliverer and Protector. What interests me most about Psalm 62 is a refrain David repeats while describing how his enemies want to bring him down by speaking falsehoods and uttering curses.
On God alone my soul waits in silence, from him comes my salvation
He only is my rock and my salvation, my fortress, I shall not be greatly shaken (Ps. 62:1,2)
Later on in the psalm, as if it is getting harder to trust, David exhorts himself to do exactly what he describes in the beginning:
For God alone, O my soul, wait in silence, for my hope is from him
He only is my rock and my salvation
My fortress; I shall not be shaken
(PS. 62:5,6)
Why the transition from denying being shaken “greatly” to denying being shaken at all?
For David, at least, extolling God through thanksgiving and praise seems to build confidence that the goodness he has encountered is a sturdy, immovable thing. His emphatic acknowledgment of it makes him a bold witness, not a shrinking recipient awaiting to be targeted for retribution. He seems 100% confident that God is greater than anything or anyone that might mean him harm. His exuberance shames me, as I realize that my reticence betrays the opposite belief: that evil always wins out and is stronger than good.
I am told that this kind of thinking/feeling is the result of PTSD, which has marked my life after a harrowing childhood. That makes sense to me, given how we humans learn emotional lessons that stay with us for decades. Once I saw a documentary that featured an elderly African American woman whose town had been completely razed to the ground by white supremacists. From her wheelchair, the aged woman said something to the effect of, “I still see it happening every single night.” Despite the years that had passed, she was still captive to her experience of terror, no matter how long the time of peace that had passed between that fateful night and her present existence.
So, what do we do when deep-seated fear grips our tongue? When the thanksgiving and praise we wish to offer dies in our throats in an attempt to defend our little plot of providence?
My initial thought: start small. You’ve already been marked by extreme duress. No need to put yourself under more pressure than you must. God understands your predicament and has compassion for you. He is more interested in what you can say simply, whole-heartedly, than anything you come up with as a more dramatic obligation.
My next thought: push back. You’ll never figure out how strong and sure your blessings are unless you test them in various environments and find that they do indeed “hold up.” Share the progress you’ve made with those closest to you and watch confidence in God’s goodness grow. He seems to have rigged the system so that we must participate in our own rehabilitation for it to take hold fully. We do that through our testimony, telling our story repeatedly until it is ingrained in us as an ironclad truth—one “truer” than the harm we once suffered.
Although the apostle Paul was writing to the Corinthian church about money, his words apply to our emotional currency as well:
“…whoever sows sparingly will also reap sparingly, and whoever sows bountifully will also reap bountifully. Each one must give as he has made up his mind, not reluctantly or under compulsion, for God loves a cheerful giver.”
(2 Cor. 9:6–7)
This much I can say cheerfully: God has stuck with me all the years of my life, even when I could not see Him clearly. And He mainly did this in the form of beloved people who made every effort to give me what I needed when I was plastered up against the glass, looking for all intents and purposes like a dead thing.
As it turns out, the moth was still alive because at some point it flew away without leaving any evidence of having been ripped away from my door, either by the wind or a predator. Appearances were deceiving—not a leaf, not dead at all. I hope and pray that in some small way we can come to the same conclusion about ourselves—that there is still life worth living, and sharing, within us.
With the psalmist, let us join in with the poem that both closes and encapsulates the spirit of the whole psalter:
Praise the Lord!
Praise God in his sanctuary; praise him in his mighty heavens!
Praise him for his mighty deeds; praise him according to his excellent greatness!
Praise him with trumpet sound; praise him with lute and harp!
Praise him with tambourine and dance; praise him strings and pipe!
Praise him with sounding cymbals; praise him with loud clashing cymbals!
Let everything that has breath praise the Lord!
Praise the Lord!
(Psalm 150)
Amen.
