Fear and banana bread

The piece of paper was a little bigger than one you'd find in a fortune cookie. And on it I had written the word FEAR. And as I dropped it into the large glass bowl of water at the front of the sanctuary on Ash Wednesday night, I prayed to let go of the fear. I prayed to manage the fear. I prayed to feel the fear.

I don't know when I first felt fear. I'm sure it was early on, as most children get a sense of fear when they first attempt to touch something hot or do something potentially harmful and a parent stops him or her. I'm sure that happened to me. More than once. I push the envelope from time to time. This isn't new.

But I do remember the first real sense of dread I had. My parents were late picking me up from Latch Key, after school care, when I was in middle school. And I knew there was something bad about that. I knew something bad had happened (it had, my grandfather was in the hospital). I wanted them to come get me and take me home but I also knew that when they did, whatever bad thing had happened, I would then know about. And maybe it was better not knowing. That fear was real. So real I remember it decades later. I remember the way the air felt that day, in that parking lot, getting into our car, as if it happened just last week. 

But now, as a grown person, I know that feeling that fear means so much more than just the dread. I know that that fear can be excitement or anticipation. And yes, it can mean being terrified and panicked. It can me so much and so little at the same time. And I think that's why, last Wednesday, I prayed to feel it. But more so, I prayed to let go of the fear. 

We were instructed to let things go for Lent during the meditation. And fear was my thing. But I also knew, just a little more than I wanted to let myself believe, that I couldn't really let go of this thing I was writing on this slip of dissolvable paper they'd handed out when we entered the church that night. And thus, I prayed to manage the fear. And that's something I pray for regularly, daily, if not hourly at times. Because I'm fearful a lot. A LOT. 

I'm afraid of people in my life dying. I'm afraid of choking to death on a cracker sitting alone in my living room. I'm afraid of never "making it" as a writer. I'm afraid I angered a friend last week. I'm afraid I'll never lose those twenty pounds (or two hundred) I'd like to lose. I'm afraid that the negative blood tests for pancreatic cancer will have been misread and I actually do have cancer. I'm afraid that the Tigers will never have a viable baseball team again. I'm afraid that all my friends really don't like me. I'm afraid that the blood thinners will magically quit working and I'll get another PE.  I'm afraid that heaven might not be real. I'm afraid that I'm killing my brain and my wrists by using my iPhone twenty-seven hours a day. I'm afraid I'll never get through the stack of novels on my bedside table. I'm afraid I'll catch a cold if I volunteer. I'm afraid I'll miss out if I don't go to the comedy club. I'm afraid that I'll have nothing new to write about ever. I'm afraid that I'll never see a woman President of the United States in my lifetime. I'm afraid I'll trip and fall and sprain my ankle right before our vacation. I'm afraid the paper cut I got last week will never heal. I'm afraid I'm afraid I'm afraid.

I could go on for pages. For days. For ever. 

I'm afraid. 

And I know I'm not alone in that feeling. But that doesn't really make me feel better. 

So what do I do about it? What do we do about it?

Well, for starters, I wrote it down and I made it disappear in a bowl of water. That felt a little bit freeing. And then I committed to a Lenten Bible Study/Book Club with a bunch of other really cool women who are just as fearful about stuff as I am. I know it's true because we talked about it at our first meeting last week. And it felt so good to talk about it. Because that's the second thing I can do. Talk about it. 

One of the things I've learned about managing panic attacks and PTSD episodes is to talk about them. To tell the person you're with that you're having one, if you can. So I'll turn to Angela or my parents or whomever I trust and I'll say, I'm really panicking right now. And usually Angela will say, "I know." And I'll be all like, yeah, great, I'm a fantastic actor. And then I'll feel the tiniest bit better. 

But then I usually find that I have to do something to get over the fear. And wait - no, it usually has nothing to do with the fear. Although sometimes it does. But usually I just go do something. I get lost in a book. Or I make banana bread. Or I go volunteer and put my worry to go use. I ask Angela to play cards or I peruse Instagram and I forget, just for a moment, what I was so afraid of. 

And then I try to be brave. I'm not saying I'm brave, because I'm not. But I pretend. I try. I do the thing that scares me. Or the thing I will wish later I had done. 

I send my script out for notes when I'm terrified it's the worst thing ever written. I send a text to a friend I haven't talked to in a while. I call my parents. I write out greeting cards to the little ones in my life. I do some work that I've been putting off. I bake that banana bread. So much banana bread. (Four batches today. Four batches because that is something I can control, today, the day before the Democratic primaries, day whatever of this crazy Coronavirus worry, another day when I haven't heard back from someone about a work thing.)

Because sometimes all the fear needs is to get pushed aside. To get put on the back burner. To get forgotten about for a minute. 

Because we all have fear. We all need fear. It's within in. It's a great motivator. But it can also paralyze us. 

But being afraid is being alive. It's being strong or stronger despite all the terrible. And it's having the faith to keep going. To keep trying. To keep doing. Despite all the rest. 

This Lenten season, whether you're giving up anything or not, my hope for you is that you acknowledge your fears, that you name your fears, and that you do something, anything, big or small, despite your fears. That's my hope for you and that's my hope for me.