What if they’re upset?

                                                  starts the slow descent 

                                               into the cave. What if

                                            they’re mad at me? 

                                          I squelch into dirt. What if 

                                      they hate me? I sink deeper    

                                    and deeper into the earth. 

                                   I’m stuck. 

                                 Limestone

                              slowly collapses

                                around me

                                       I’m stagnating.

                                    Fear of man is turning inwards,      

                                            spiralling, making everyone

                                                    happy to feel safe, but

                                                          the cave is airless.

I don’t know how she got in, but she likes to call out the dust on my blinds, the dishes in my sink, the tone in my voice.

I tick something off the list. Guilt slips her arm over my shoulder, whispers in my ear about the three other things I didn’t do. 

When I get something done, she slips into bed next to me, touches my face and says, “But honey, you didn't do it very well.”

I was sitting at the dining table one morning in August 2023, after another sleepless night, spoon feeding my 12 month old baby girl as she sat in her high chair. Weary and worn out after months of sleep deprivation and doing life with 3 little, somewhat spicy, humans under 6 - I turned to the Psalms seeking refreshment for my tired heart (not that I could read well through my puffy, blow fish eyes). I had read the words of Psalm 23 many times, but this morning, in God’s kindness and in my desperate need, they had a particular effect on my heart.