I tried to put the key in my head to unlock the life I long for. Then someone told me it doesn’t go there but goes right in the middle of my sternum where my heart lives alongside the life of a little girl who used to be curious full of adventure and fearless as she climbed the walls and linen closets of her mother’s house with a Sharpie and Vaseline in hand because she just couldn’t contain the creativity that ballooned in her body — no, it demanded it come out no matter the mess. Then, one day, she changed. Inexplicably and inexpressibly she quit taking risks and grew afraid to climb petrified to paint without lines without clarity and sight and a clear mind because she no longer believed her body no longer listened to all that ballooned within the Voice of her Divine God who designed her to live life integrated whole — body, mind, and soul — Instead, she held everything and stuffed it shut her mouth and lost her voice waking up from dreams where she tried to scream but made no noise. "Whole," Katelynn Martin
I went to a very casual painting party for my friend’s birthday recently, and she’d asked us all to come prepared with what we longed to be more true in our lives, which would be used as inspiration for our painting. I thought, “oh, this is good. This is a great idea. I can’t wait to see what painting I come up with.”
As we finished eating, and it was time to start painting, I found myself becoming increasingly anxious. Pains in my chest gripped the space around my heart and I felt paralyzed. I knew in my body that the moment my first brushstroke hit the paper, the floodgates would open, and I would not be okay.
So, I didn’t paint.
Even more recently, I was sitting around the dinner table with my family. Somehow, the conversation turned to what my behavior was like when I was a toddler. As the stories go, I was very mischievous and to quote my mother, “naughty.” At the table, my mom recounted the time I took black Sharpie and drew all over the bathroom floor of our new house and then wiped Vaseline down the stairwell of said new house (Vaseline does not come off, by the way, nor can it be painted over — it just leaves nice, shiny streaks forever. You’re welcome to the current owners of that house.)
My grandma chimed in to tell the story of a conversation she’d had with my mom when I was around this age. I liked to watch a lot of TV as a kid (honestly, haven’t changed) and my mom was worried about it. She told my grandma, who replied “no, don’t worry. She’s collecting information. She’s going to be a writer someday.”
I’ve heard these stories a million times. But hearing them again at this particular time in my life around the dinner table last week left me with stinging tears in my eyes. I wondered what had changed, what happened to those curious, adventurous, fearless parts of myself that seemed to go dormant around the time I turned four.
It’s with that girl, that four-year-old, where I can recall some of my earliest memories, but nothing before. I remember how anxious that four-year-old could be – the social anxiety, the separation anxiety, the going-to the-bathroom anxiety. In fact, that’s the feeling I have in my body when I remember her. Not curious. Not adventurous. Not fearless. Never taking up space. Just anxious and needing to feel small.
I think of the words of Jesus – “Let the little children come to Me and do not hinder them, for to such belongs the kingdom of heaven” (Matt. 19:14).
What would happen if that four-year-old girl was left unhindered to take off my own fear like a jacket or shedding skin and allowed to come to Jesus?
Maybe, I’d be able to finish that poem at the top of this blog post, along with a better ending here. Maybe painting what I long to be true wouldn’t paralyze me. Maybe curiosity, adventure, creativity, and courage would begin to feel familiar again, like putting on armor that fits.
O God, I don’t know how to pray for those of us who feel paralyzed. Thank You for Jesus, who intercedes on our behalf, and that You count our heavy, hyperventilating breaths, and our tears, the groaning prayers in our bodies, and the silent ones in our hearts. You are holy and wonderful – help us turn our face to You.
Amen.