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When Nightmares Come True
rebecca@rebeccafussell.com
I feel like one of my regular nightmares is coming true.
I’m headed down the tunnel of an ice arena about to skate in front of a roaring crowd.
My clammy hand scoots along the cold concrete wall as I tiptoe down the rubber walkway in my shiny new skates. The energy pinging around the auditorium feels like a wild laser show. The anticipation is high. But no higher than the anxiety in my heart.
See, there’s a problem.
I can barely skate backwards, let alone land a triple lutz.
But they don’t know that.
So, I rush out of the tunnel and onto the ice. Chin up. Shoulders forward. Arms behind me like a bird in flight and a grin as wide as a hockey net. As I pick up speed, I rack my brain trying to think of any swanky move I can pull off
that doesn’t require changing direction or my skates leaving the ice.
Uh. That limits things.
As fast as I dare, I fly around the rink. The music blares, my arms flutter with fake fancy motions, and I try to engage the crowd with a clap. You know the ole, fake-it-till-you-make-it routine.
But even through the bright lights, I can see spectators whispering something to their friends. They’re not buying it.
Oh, they’re polite. No outright “boos”, yet all over the arena, people are deciding this is the perfect time to slip out to the concession stand.
My heart freezes. Fear rushes in as the crowd rushes out.
Funny. As much as I’ve dreamed that disturbing scene, I have no idea how it ends.
All I know is I wake up feeling like a failure.
I didn’t belong there, and I tried to pull a fast one over the crowd, but not because I desired to manipulate them. Goodness, no. I have no clue how I ended up in that tunnel, and Lord only knows where I got the powder-blue tutu.
Regardless, I start my real day battling
feelings of fear and failure.
But who bases their life on a crazy nightmare?
That’s ridiculous. Instead, I’m chatting with God about it, and as He graciously does, He’s exposing a few flaws in my thinking.
I’m in the midst of new things and I’m not very good at them. In fact, I’m failing, I think.
Yet somehow, here I am.
It appears that God has directed my path towards this “arena”. But much like my dream, I don’t exactly know how I got here.
Or maybe more importantly, how to get out.
I notice old patterns of “good days and bad days”
creeping into my rational. If the audience stays, then I’m loved, valued. I’m okay. That’s a good day.
If the audience peeks their head in the door, sees it’s me, then snaps it shut hoping I didn’t notice them, then I’m failing. Wasting my time. I need to skate to the nearest exit and head for the locker room.
Most days I’d love to chunk the rink. But when I picture myself inside that locker room, there’s this burning in my heart. I can’t deny it, no matter how hard I try. Even if I am a flop, I don’t think I can stop trying.
But then
there’s the failing…
I’m so frustrated I look for the nearest garbage can to kick. I could spit . . . like a boy. What?
Yuck. This isn’t me! So, I resort to a guttural “ughhhhh” and pull at my hair instead.
That’s when God whispers
to me, “Rebecca, can you just serve Me today? Don’t you worry about how it all turns out. That’s my job anyway. You just do your part and I"ll do mine.”
“But God, failing hurts, and I’m scared.
I don’t know what I’m doing! I don’t know…”
He stops me.
“How ‘bout let’s focus on what you do know.”
My mind reflects on Isaiah 41:10.
“You mean like, ‘Fear not, for I am with you; be not dismayed, for I am your God; I will strengthen you, I will help you, I will uphold you with my righteous right hand’.”
“Sure, my darling. Let’s start there. . .”
Yes. Let me start right there. I will strengthen
and help
you.
My life is NOT that nightmare, and neither is yours.
Our success is not based on the approval or disapproval of the crowd, and not your kid’s, husband’s, co-worker’s or boss’ either.
Just God’s.
Next time that nightmare shows up, instead of looking at who is exiting the stands, I will look past the others to my Father.
I don’t need to worry about fancy words or a long twisting sequence of sentences.
Just two words. “Help me.”
And then . . . I’ll tighten up my skates.
I walk. They ride. Bicycles that is.
Her name was Beatrix—Bea for short.
I can laugh about it now—quite hysterically in fact. I should’ve known, but I didn’t.
Happy New Year ~ almost! You know what that means…
Do you know what today is?
Years ago, Ronnie, Chandler and I piled into the car ready for a fun weekend away.
Life was hard. Money was short. And sleep was shorter still.
Mother or not, this post is for you.
I didn’t really have time. But this time, it didn’t matter.
The rubber tourniquet squeezed my bicep preparing my vein for the prick.