How's that for a mental image? Our Arch-Priest gave a homily a few weeks back, and he discussed his idea of spiritual Whack-a-Mole, just, as he said, "like the Holy Fathers used to say." (On a completely random side note, I get the biggest kick out of the thought of St. John Chrysostom or St. Gregory Palamas using the phrase "Whack-a-mole." But we digress.)
Of all the completely off the wall things though, THAT is what has stuck with me in recent weeks. He went on to say about how we have to treat the thoughts that invade our mind like those pesky little moles: we take our mallet--the Jesus Prayer--and we beat the ever-living tar out of them. The minute they rear their ugly heads, we have to smack them right back down where they came from.
Thoughts have always been a struggle for me. I'm a day-dreamer. I get lost in my train of thought, and I tend to stay there until rescued. These days, there are far too many interruptions in my day to form a coherent sentence, let alone drift off in a daydream, but when the kids are all in bed, and my husband is asleep, I tend to lay in bed and think. Of course, I never think of anything productive. It's my typical, "What would I do if I won the lottery?" kind of musing, or--especially this time of year--"How can I convince Fr. John to take me to Hawaii?" But, the more kids I have, the more I am finding that my thoughts and musings tend to veer into the murky swamp of fears and "what ifs?" This is especially dangerous for me, because once that train leaves the station, I have a very hard time leaping off.
But ask any mother on earth, and I'd be willing to bet that they, too, have lain awake at night, afraid of something happening to their kids. I have a five year old that is the living, breathing definition of a whirling dervish, and I worry about her falling out of a tree, or trying to teach herself to drive my car, or attempting to bring home a black bear cub, a la Little Arliss in Old Yeller. (And, as we live in Alaska, I feel that this last fear is at least somewhat justified.) My seven year old notices everything (EVERYTHING) and lately her questions have veered into the area of "things I'm not ready to talk to you about." She heard us praying for the kidnapped Bishops, Nuns, and Orphans in Syria, and was frightened. We had to have a very real talk about evil, and I didn't like it. The killer questions finally came: "Is anything like that ever going to happen to me?"
Please God, no.
And then my brain wanders. What could happen to my kids? The world we are raising them in is scary, and actively working against us. My children are now the children of a Priest, and I know that this causes the Evil One to work even harder against us. My mind starts to spin, and my heart starts to beat faster, and suddenly it's midnight and I'm hyperventilating in panic.
And then I have to remember--Whack-a-Mole. These thoughts are not of God. Beat them down. So I say the Jesus Prayer, and I beg the Theotokos to save me from myself. And as my struggle continues, I find that my timing is getting oh-so-slowly better. I might shave off a second as I remember to pray and beat the thoughts away. Of course, then the next day I find that I have planned my husband's funeral in my brain if he should happen to die and leave me alone to raise four kids...and oh dear Lord, how in the world would I do that? I'd have to move in with my parents again. I'd have to get a job. Who would babysit the little ones while I was working? Where would we get health insurance? How would I be able to live my life without calling Fr. John at work sixteen times a day just because I miss him, or I need an adult to talk to, or I'm about to have a complete nervous collapse and I need him to talk me out of it....and, oh wait. That's right. Pray. Deep breath. Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me a sinner. Fr. John is passed out right next to me. Not dead, but snoring. The girls are all snug in their bedrooms. The baby is a foot away from me in his cradle. We are all safe, and healthy, and together. Thank God. Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me a sinner. Panaghia, ease my heart. You are a mother, settle my soul.
Lather, rinse, repeat. Fortunately for me, the labor of raising four little ones causes me to pass out just about the minute my head hits the pillow, but on those rare nights when I'm awake because the baby is crying or I foolishly decided to enjoy a large glass of Dr. Pepper at 7:15 in the evening, (*ahem* like right now), I have to be proactive about not even going down that road. I can't even pray in specifics anymore, or my train of thought and prayer derails over a cliff and I'm right back into panic mode. All I can say is, God, please protect my family. Watch over them. Guardian Angels, carry them in the shelter of your wings. Theotokos, keep your arms around them.
And then I let it go. I keep whacking my moles. I keep attempting to plot ways to get to Hawaii. And should I ever win the lottery, I've worked out a really great plan of how to spend all of it.
Lovely, lovely posting, Christine. Thank you so much!
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