Let me.

Anxiety prickles at the base of my neck. It spreads—hot, rushing—out to my shoulders and down my spine.

My brain and my heart want to make things right. They bring my body into the mix.

I clench my jaw, my hands. I’m holding my breath.


I want to fix it. My insides are screaming to call her, to explain, to do the work for her. Again.

But something else happens this time. A firm, loving pressure claims the space where the anxiety has gathered.

Something outside of me—but also inside—whispers.


The Spirit moves…and tells me not to.

I squirm. I refuse the comfort.

Let me.

The song of the psalmist replaces the taunting chorus of worry and guilt and anger in my head.

“Be still, and know that I am God.”

I open. I exhale. I wait. I watch.

New prayers of release—not hopelessness—find their way from my mouth.

Tears of spring water—not vinegar—pool and pour.

Jesus tells me, “Behold, I am making all things new!”

Yes, even this. Yes, even her. Yes, even us.

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