Another cry. This one stops my heart and then starts it pounding hard. I'm up and at his side in a second. It's the blood curdling cry a mama never wants to hear 'cause it can't mean anything good.
My feverish five-year-old is incoherent. "Are you okay?, What's wrong?" I get no answers just more of those cries that put the fear in me.
I shake him, move him, call him by name. "Drink, drink. Sit up and drink."
Nothing but screams.
"Tell me, tell me what's wrong!" My voice is louder, stronger.
Finally an answer, "I'm scared."
"Of what? What are you scared of?" I shake him again.
"I'm scared of those."
All I see is two sleeping boys in the bunk nearby--"Of what, honey, what are you scared of?"
"The ropes, the ropes, I'm scared of the ropes."
"Wake, wake from the nightmare and drink, drink this juice."
"I'm scared, Mrs. J____ dressed up as a witch!"
"Oh honey, it's not real, it's not real. Here, sit up and drink this juice."
He takes the cup and now it's okay. There's no ropes, no witch.
I lay back down and I see it. I am living in uncertainties right now--
health, timing, commitments--
can I wake up and taste?
Internalize the spiritual realities; digest them.
I've got to pick up the cup and drink; no one can do it for me.