The Last Word

The wind slams doors, dots the yard with cans and cardboard, making dandelions look sweet by comparison. The trees throw tantrums in return, blossomed fists flailing at the sky.

I sit on the other side of the glass, in stillness and silence save the whir of the dishwasher. But beneath my sheltered skin pounds a wind-blown heart, a thousand thoughts knotted and wild from the wind. I feel about as rooted as the soda bottle floating across my yard. (And to give you an example, I don't even know whether I call it soda or pop or coke. Where am I from, anyway?)

I hear howling in the windy landscape of my head. I hear that I don't belong anywhere and that I never will. That I am not getting enough done (and that I shouldn't be writing unless it is for that article due in two days--that I'm just wasting time). I hear a list--line by line by scary line--of things I cannot control. I hear Anxiety conspiring with Uneasiness about how they'll convince me to throw away a perfectly good month of Maine sunshine. Uggh. Why do I put up with those two?

If ever there was a time to take these pointless thoughts captive, it is now. And so louder than the lonely-not-belonging, I shout back the promise of eternal home. I shush the task-driven stress and give voice to the wisdom of being still, of knowing He is God. I scratch out that growing can't-control-it-list and write on top: NOT. ONE. CUBIT. Whatever a cubit is, I know I can't add it by worrying.

And so goes the daily argument between Faith and Unbelief.
Oh, that Faith would always have the last word.