The Beast
..."Casting all your anxiety on Him because He cares for you." 1 Peter 5:7
It's 5:30 am, the stars are fighting to hang on through the bright blue haze of early morning mist just before the sun makes it's rounds and follows the path to your window where it will settle for the day until returning once again to where it came from 24 hours before. "BEEP, BEEP, BEEP!!!" your alarm squeals for a moment before you slam the snooze button...again. Just as you pull the warm covers over your head for one last snuggle in your toasty cocoon of dream land and roll over to place your bare and vulnerable big toe on the cold and dangerous floor, you hear a crack, as if something were approaching just yards...feet...and now inches away from you. Your heart stops as you hold your breath and listen with your whole being, waiting, waiting, waiting...
Suddenly, you're knocked down and tumble from the side of the bed upon which you just sat, to the floor opposite, tangled up within the blanket you just held with security. As beads of sweat drizzle down your spine and moisten the edges of your hairline, you find yourself pinned to the floor like prey with something beastly on you. It's big and fiercely strong, breathing with such intensity that it almost purrs and vibrates the entire room with each inhale and exhale of the once peaceful air. You strain, tense and attempt to scream, but nothing comes out. There's nothing you can do.
Crawling to the bathroom, you apply makeup and dress in your favorite pale blue shirt. Within the hour, you're out the door and about your life, beast in tow as if you're giving a free piggy-back-ride for the day. He growls in your ear while making the atmosphere reek with a muffling odor of rotten eggs and dead fish; a tangible substance thickening upon your shoulders like molasses and smothering your ability to think and move and breathe and sometimes even feel; everyone stares and points, making you the unwanted center of attention. This is anxiety.
The beauty of this beast is that he's not ours to carry like some rat/snake/dinosaur-ish pet. Rather than adding him to our life like a newfound accessory, we can literally cast him out of our bedroom the moment he comes in with stealth to attack. We need to be on the offense rather than the defense, crouching at the foot of our bed and then pouncing the instant he does, bringing such a vigorous collision that will send him flying through the air until he lands at the feet of Christ like a wet cat on a stormy day, shivering and helpless. He's not ours to carry.
