There was a day that is etched in my head. A moment or two within that day, actually. Both ends of the story are significant in my mind, and in my heart. The middle? That’s the part that most would see AS the story. But it is the incident within the story. The portion that allows the story itself to be told. It, in and of itself, isn’t truly significant. Nor, do I, especially, find it important. But it came to mind today because of a similar incident – that wasn’t accompanied by a genuine story.
The story begins with a beautiful sunny day that wasn’t overly warm. It was a typical day for us here on our property. I’ve never come to call it a farm, because we don’t farm, we play. The girls and I were down in the pasture with the pony, the goat and the mini horse. (Faygo, Mooseberry and Smidgen, to be named.) Smidgen’s mane was a tangled mess again and needed a great amount of work to detangle and comb through. Same for her tail — add trimming as it was happily dragging on the ground. All three of us were working on both of the larger animals. Grooming with a shedding blade, combing their coats with mitts, using a bristled brush and comb in their manes. We were chatting. Enjoying the world around us. Taking care of friends. Steve was mowing somewhere on the property. I could always hear the mower sounds as he worked.
Our pasture is down by our creek. The creek at that time was just babbling. The sounds of the creek were simple and quiet. Comforting.
I became aware of a tightening in my throat. I continued to talk, work with the girls, groom the animals. The tightening became more distinct, and I couldn’t cough it away. Annoyed, but comprehending, I reached for my inhaler – which lives in my pocket. Most of the time. For whatever reason, I hadn’t grabbed it on our way down to work with the animals. Not a bright move. Dander, hay, horses, spring pollen….all weigh heavily on my asthma meter. Nonetheless, I was without.
With a practiced nonchalance, I reminded the girls of the steps for safety around the hoof animals (which they clearly thought was unnecessary) and said that I was going up to the house for a few minutes. I’m sure they thought nothing of it, but they were young enough that I had never left them down on their own yet. And the walk back up the hill was a 5+ minute walk on a good amount of breath, and mine was becoming increasingly poorer. But I started out. Slow. Steady. Creeping towards the house.
Usually, Steve would have noticed. I don’t know how. I don’t know when it started. And I don’t know how he has become brave enough to do it. But he takes care of me. A me that absolutely wants nothing to do with being taken care of. And he does it safely, and with respect — and usually with no prodding or request from me. He’s become my go to, especially with an asthma attack. I walk up to him, I put my head on his chest. He holds me gently on my back, and on the back of my head, and he breathes. Slowly, loudly. With exaggeration so that I can hear the breath and feel his heart all at the same time. I close my eyes. And the panic subsides. And the breathing returns slowly to normal.
That day. I made it to the lane to our building, less than half the distance from the pasture to the house. And I sat down. And I used my last strong bits of breath to call to the girls. Just their names. Several times. And when I heard them respond – I called them to me. Both girls came. And they immediately knew something was wrong. I started to explain, but both knew what I needed. “Your medicine? Where is it?” I told them, and Abby started sprinting up the hill. And Audrey sat beside me on the grass and held my hand.
I survived. And we laughed later about me being stubborn and forgetful and I endured little lectures about my health and how if I know that I’m allergic to the horses, shouldn’t I stop taking care of them, because they (these beautifully strong girls of mine) were MORE than capable of doing those chores.
But there’s so much more that is added, and continues to add to that story in my heart – in their hearts. We learned so much about each other that day. Leaning on them when I need to lean isn’t a scary thing for me. I still don’t want help, and I will do things my own way, but when it comes to a genuine need sometime in my future — I know I can find the strength and the love that I need through 3 hearts – my family. And they saw a glimpse of their invincible mom being downright vulnerable. They saw the consequences of making poor choices. They saw the issues that can arise from not being prepared. They saw a vulnerability in my eyes — and at very young ages — learned that Mom is a person.
And we never lost that relationship shift. There may have been a day to one or both of them that was more clearly a representation of knowing, actually knowing, that their mother was human – but this is the one that stands out in my memory. And it was at this point, in that moment, that I leaned into trust. It was no longer me the caretaker, them the cared for. I saw through their strengths and their love — the eyes of the God that I work so hard to build a relationship with. There he stood. Who knew he was less than 4 foot tall and had blue (no green) eyes and long blond hair. Who knew he could run that fast? Or that he could make my panic subside with one tiny hand on mine?
It is true that I see God in the intricate patterns of the leaves of ferns. I see him in moss, in sunsets, (sunrises if I am motivated enough) and hear him in the sounds of nature. But I also hear God in my husband’s heartbeat, see him in my daughter’s eyes, and hold him when I touch any of their hands. Why do I hold onto my husband so often? During worship? In life group? When riding in the car? Because when I touch him, I hold God close. I hold the hand that God gave me. And I allow this man to hold my trust.
God knows how hard that trust is to earn.
wanderingoutinleftfield 
LOVE!!!!! ♥️♥️♥️