Parenthood changes you, man.

Or maybe it’s not even fair to blame it on parenthood; maybe it’s the rearranging of priorities brought about by parenthood but not limited to just that enterprise, but anything that results in the relegating of self to a much lower rung on life’s ladder, in the recognition and breaking of fearful patterns, in the redefining of words like safety and love and best. Whatever the case, I will not be watching American Horror Story this season (what, you expected a different revelation?). The Husband keeps asking if I’m “suuure?” with a disappointed gleam in his eye, but I know what I can handle these days. Or more to the point, what I can’t. I don’t need to feel any more helpless or afraid than I’m already inclined.

It’s the same reason why, the other day, I remembered that movie The Village and thought, “I totally get that now.” Who could have a protective instinct so strong you would consider building an actual fence to keep the terrible world away from your children? (I’m typing with one hand as I raise the other.) But fences usually come crashing down at some point, don’t they? At least all the ones I’ve ever built have.

I’m an introvert, which is a personality trait but also an excuse to fold up into myself like an origami model and run from the world, all INTJ and scared. The space I occupy within my own head has curtains and wall hangings and everything, I spend so much time hiding there, and fear can be all too easy to nurse when you’re on the lam. I like life to be packaged into manageable, well-ordered, mystery-free segments of time; or, like I told TH yesterday, “I can be flexible! Within a rigid framework that allows me an inch to express my flexibility.”

But life, and grace, like to pull the well-placed-and-vacuumed rug right out from underneath me from time to time, because who am I if not a believer forgetting to stand on the Rock?

Just a week ago, I was burying my toes (and, arguably, head) in the sand. I ventured into the crystal water of the Gulf and handed TH my stuff and floated beneath the surface for a minute, the rolling waves washing over instead of into me, and I thought about how much of life is letting go. How surrender can be an act of bravery. Apropos of something, because three days later I was curled into a fetal position on my bed, jumping up every few minutes to recreate Niagara Falls in my toilet, the victim of a stomach virus. And my soul sister emailed and called a spade a spade, or in this case a forced Sabbath, and I thought, “Oh you. You again, grace. You may be amazing, but you’re also sneaky!” And I let sickness do what fear tries to prevent, which is, cancel my plans and expose my weaknesses. I leaned more heavily on TH. I didn’t put dinner on the table. I reeked. I kept some distance from The Kid. I became unreliable to people who were depending on me (don’t worry, it was mainly just work people and they had it coming). My greatest fears realized, and I survived.

I’m beginning to see the kinship between effort and fear, the secret agreement they have with each other that allows effort to cover for fear, to be its louder and more accomplished form. I know how quickly anything good can be turned bad, really, the way milk is fresh one minute and spoiled the next, the way this world can poison the best intentions then pave the road to hell with them (seriously, where is that fence, M. Night?!). How my diamond shoes can be too tight and too much sunlight hurts my eyes and sacrifice can turn into martyrdom. Your generosity may look prettier to the world than my boundary-setting, but have you any idea how hard it is for me to stand up for myself, how doing so is negating a lifelong trajectory of fearful agreeability?

What I’m saying is that we’re all more motivated by fear than by grace. And sometimes the bravest thing may look like the weakest–I can remember one time in particular in history when it did. Grace allows for broad definitions, sometimes even individual ones. And miracles and life don’t just occur on top of water; often they are embedded in splinters of wood.

Trust is the bridge from yesterday to tomorrow, built with planks of thanks. Remembering frames up gratitude. Gratitude lays out the planks of trust. I can walk the planks–from known to unknown–and know: He holds.  (Ann Voskamp, One Thousand Gifts)

TK and I have had a standing date for the past few days on our hammock in the backyard. I swing us as he is nestled up next to me, eyes wide at all the trees standing tall around us, doing their thing as we do ours. Yesterday, TH joined us and there we were, our family of three, hands holding each other instead of hanging on for dear life. The surrender of being held.