Occasionally, a bee or yellow jacket will make its way into our home. My first reaction is to close the door on whatever room the accursed insect is in and then I contemplate my next move. When I realize what I have to do next, my heart shrinks a little. Then I gather my bee-killing supplies and approach the closed door. After a quick prayer or three I cautiously open the door a crack and then abruptly shut it again. At this point, I'm so afraid of that wretched buzzing creature that I'm just about frozen with fear and considering just keeping the door closed until Joshua comes home 7 hours later and takes care of it for me. But then my mothering instincts kick in and I do the one thing that my brain keeps telling me is a bad idea. My feet barely move, but I make them take me back to the closed door. I open it, step inside, and shut the door behind me.
It's just you and me now, you vicious winged killer.
Maybe it sounds silly to be so afraid of such a little thing, but for me, the act of a mother setting aside her own paralyzing fear just to protect her children is a phenomenon that puzzles and intrigues me. Why do I face my fear and shut myself in that room inhabited by the thing that makes my heart pound and skin crawl? Why do I face that danger (whether real or imagined)?
I do it so that my babies don't have to. I'd rather be shut in with a dozen of my fears than to step aside and let any of them touch my children. Where does this love come from? When did it get put in my heart?
And what can I do to make it grow?
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