On Top of the World [a favorite memory]

You know that feeling? When everything has suddenly piled on top of you, and while all of it hurts, it's not even the pain that you're focusing on. It's the sheer weight of the entire world on your shoulders. It's so overwhelming to have one issue after another pop its head out of the pit of blackness - like when you're at an arcade, trying to play Whack-a-Mole, and as soon as you hit one down, another one sneers at you. Before long, you start to lose all sense of feeling because all you can comprehend is pressure coming from every single direction. And you lose control.

Yeah. I hate that feeling.

I had this feeling recently. I don't even remember everything I was overwhelmed with, but that's irrelevant, because the moments of sitting on my bed with my mind on overload are certainly not included in my list of favorite memories.

The relief started when my mom asked me to take my little brother outside. I didn't want to go. I was trying to deal with the load of things on my plate and mind, and I had no interest in entertaining a five year old. But he ran out the front door before I could protest and my only option was to follow him. So I did. When I met him outside, I asked him what he wanted to do. He suggested a walk which sounded particularly miserable to me at the moment. But it was either a walk or laying on the cement and letting him bounce on me, so I consented.

What was supposed to be a little stroll around the block quickly turned into me chasing him around the neighborhood - for an entire mile. I was not terribly pleased, but he wasn't slowing down, and I didn't have the energy to catch up. Finally, he stopped at the other end of the neighborhood and begged me to take him to the park. I'm still not sure what possessed me to say yes, but once again, I consented.

We took off running again. Through the hot spring afternoon, through the dry air, across the hard sidewalk, around shedding trees, past dogs, laughing children, and busy adults. away, away, away We were running away. Or, at least, I was. With a small hand wrapped around mine and only strangers in my way, I made my way to the park.

And there, I beheld them: my favorite park attraction ever. The swings.

And there I sat, molding my body to the soft rubber and wrapping my hands around the metal chains. Hudson found his way to the pile of sand and began playing with strangers in his childlike, innocent way. I promptly ignored everyone above four feet tall and pulled out my headphones. And thus began my playlist of hopeful songs. Not the wishful, but the faithful ones. "Hold my Heart." "I Still Believe." "Already Home." All the songs that paint a picture of helplessness with a burst of hope in Christ.

And then I began swinging. No, I began flying. My legs soared through the air, my hair flew out behind me, one arm hung at my side, and my eyes were snapped shut. I wasn't on a child's swing anymore. I was in the air, and I was never coming back down. Suddenly, the pressure was released, and I could breathe, I could think, I could sing. I could see. I could live again. Because nothing--not even gravity--could ever hold me back again. I didn't stop for hours. Not until my songs had recycled themselves more than once and absolute exhaustion began creeping into my legs. Only then did I finally slow down, tumble off of the swing, and sit down, letting the last song fade out in my ears.

In brokenness I can see that this was Your will for me. Help me to know that You are near.

And with a mixture of absolute, liberating freedom combined with a resurgence of hope in God's will, love, and faithfulness, the entire world had been lifted from my shoulders. All the moles had been crushed. Life was mine to thrive in once more.

You know that feeling? When nothing's holding you back because you're soaring through the depths of an unsuspecting universe?

Yeah. I adore that feeling.