Beginning at 4:22 A.M.
I woke up from a dream with a question for myself—or maybe more of an envisioning.
If I were ever attacked, what would I actually do?
Oddly enough, I don’t picture myself fighting first. I picture myself dropping to the ground and praying the Psalms.
“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil…”
Then I imagined asking God to forgive the person attacking me because they didn’t know what they were doing. Childhood trauma has a way of reproducing itself until somebody interrupts the cycle. I’d want to leave justice in God’s hands.
Now, I also know myself well enough to admit I’d be terrified.
My hope isn’t that I’d somehow become fearless. My hope is that I wouldn’t have one of those trauma responses where my body suddenly decides I’m five times too big for the room while someone is holding a knife or a gun. Trauma has funny ways of hijacking reality.
I think all of this was probably brought on by the massive rodent currently living somewhere on top of my dad’s boat shed.
Every few minutes it sounds like someone is knocking at the door.
Then it sounds like little bodies being dragged across the roof.
Whatever is up there is busy.
And honestly?
It is very, very distressing.
I keep trying to tell myself it could be a squirrel, except it is not a squirrel. It is something much larger. A raccoon, maybe. Or some other Texas creature with thumbs, secrets, and unresolved childhood trauma.
What makes it worse is that I don’t hear babies.
Nothing.
No little paws.
No little claws.
No tiny roof nursery sounds.
Which naturally makes my brain wonder whether something has gone very wrong up there. Or maybe she’s pre-building a nest. Who knows? Do raccoons even build nests in attics in the middle of summer?
Great questions.
Questions I do not need to be asking at 4:20 in the morning.
But, you know…
I loop.
My dad said, “Baby, please. It’s probably just a mother trying to feed her children or make a nest. Let’s try to live in peace with each other, wouldja? She’s chewing up all the damn electrical wiring.”
“Sure dad.”
“Thank You. Hey, have you heard the story about your Uncle George and the squirrels he saved from a very pissed off mother?”
This is how my dad comforts me.
Cold logic.
Compassion.
And an almost constant invitation to consider the least of these.
He only gets away with it because he almost always starts with a “please” and ends with a “thank you.”
And whenever I’m with him, he always reminds me that he loves me today.
The thing that frustrated me most wasn’t actually whatever woodland creature was apparently filming No Country for Old Men on the roof.
#CoenBrothers #NoCountryForOldMen
Honestly, it fit the décor.
My dad’s boat barn has enough weathered wood to make you wonder if you’ve accidentally wandered onto a movie set, which may explain why my brain was in the state of mind it was in.
Maybe that’s also why my thoughts drifted toward Jimmy.
Not in the dramatic, I miss my husband kind of way.
Just in the practical sense that there used to be another nervous system in the house.
If I’d woken him up, he probably would’ve rolled over, listened for about three seconds, and said, “Just go back to sleep. It’s gonna be fine. I got it.”
And the strange thing is–in moments like these, I don’t actually struggle with Jimmy. I miss having someone (Jimmy) stand watch. Even as I watched him drift back to sleep. If he heard the sound, he knew the source and went back to sleep–that was another nervous system that comforted an overly active imagination. Then I was asleep.
Which, naturally, sent my brain into yet another completely reasonable line of thinking.
Maybe marriage isn’t the issue–maybe it’s my penchant for wanting romance without fear. Imagine a world where there was a man who perpetually stood guard outside your house.
He fixed the scary things.
He killed the spiders.
He investigated the mysterious noises on the roof.
He made sure you could sleep.
You never had to have sex with him.
Romance was the only thing allowed to happen.
Honestly?
That would make an incredible romance novel. No one would buy it.
Except me.
Actually, we don’t let our first thought be the only thought. On deeper reflection, I have a lot of people in my life that would actually buy that kind of novel. Namely women. But I don’t think it has to be sex related–in that way.
But in the course of this evening? I would hear every sermon illustration and Sunday school lesson I’ve ever listened to or taught.
There is a name of someone who stands guard and it even has romantic attachment connotations.
His name is Jesus Christ.
So mankind, join me. Men typically don’t have this particular metaphor working in their favor. It’s much easier to fall in love with Jesus as a woman, I think, because the imagery in Scripture is that Jesus is the “Bridegroom”. And I’ve asked grown men.
“Don’t you just love that Jesus is the Groom and you are the bride? Isn’t that incredibly romantic and sweet?”
Usually I get blank stares.
Or, more commonly…
“Yeah… it feels a little uncomfortable.”
Then, because Jennifer brains the way Jennifer brains, A Series of Unfortunate Events floated into my mind as the perfect solution to my current state of mind. I thought, Screw it. I’m not going back to sleep. Let me just pull up Disney+ and see if it’s on the menu.
Y’all…
When I opened my laptop, the clock read 4:20.
But because trauma responses are rarely neat, I froze.
Which, honestly, was kind of useful information.
Considering my very real concern that if somebody ever came in trying to hurt me, I would either fight or flight…
Apparently not.
Apparently I freeze.
Which really doesn’t put me in the middle of the solution I’m hoping for— dropping to my knees and praying to Jesus. I hope I can unfreeze enough to at least do that.
But, you know…
In the event of my unseemly death, I don’t actually think God or Jesus is going to be upset that I had a trauma response and forgot to pray. That’s just what I believe. It took no less than thirty seconds for my thinking brain to kick back in.
This is an uncanny coincidence. CPTSD screwing with me, once again.
Find your phone. Take a picture. This is going to be freaking hilarious later in life. Get sensory. Use your eyes.
Here’s the problem–
Jennifer doesn’t put her phone on the charger.
When wondering where important things have been placed, Jennifer can never, “call it”. Especially at 4:20 in the morning.
It took me exactly two minutes to find it. By the time I did…
It was 4:22.
You’ll just have to take my word for it.
Honestly?
4:22 might actually be funnier. I’m usually two minutes late and a dollar short. #Ohwell.
Maybe that’s part of what God was reminding me before dawn.
Because every person becomes statistically singular once you stack enough real traits, history, wounds, language, family culture, faith, humor, and nervous-system patterns plus also CPTSD together.
Unique.
Individual.
Unrepeatable.
And yet somehow created to live in harmony—with one another, with the rest of creation, and with Him. This, my friend, is how God made us.
Even the raccoon or whatever the frick was up there.
In Jesus’ name,
All Men
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