sweet smell of cinnamon.
And the ripping right raw, the tearing of the muscles, and the kicking out of little feet against the too tight space of uterine walls- it eases. Smell does that. The right scent breathed in deep through the nose can calm even the most anxious of heartbeats.
Painting the children’s rooms these past few weeks has given me a large dose of nostalgia almost overwhelmingly so. Sent me back to childhood. To family working side by side in restoring mountain cabin. To the walls of fresh color, those fumes overpowering, and thankfulness for how they seemed to finally mask the smell of the rodent urine that littered the log sides.
We were wilderness family embodied during that time- that time when everything in the world seemed like it was at the brink of perfection– the time before I knew much of anything in regards to how great the sin is in this world. Innocence still clung to every part of me, and I was only a year away from being in high-school.
The talk that I hear now sends shivers down my spine. Panic almost suffocates me. Lungs tighten. Heart races. It’s the Preakness Stakes here in my blood. And fear runs me right through. And I want to go back to my childhood home in the valley of mountains. To raise my kids in innocence. To shield them from a world where there is no protection for their ears and their eyes. To hold them close and place my worn body before theirs in this fray of warfare- this battling for something greater. Why can they not just have the greater? Why must this world be allowed to nip and tear and rip away their innocence?
And, it’s cinnamon. This smell that calms the nerves and soaks seemingly into my very skin. And that’s all I am. This flesh and bone and blood. I’m wrapped in a skin and I can’t do spiritual battle on my own.
And then there’s trust.
To trust in Him who created these children in the depths of my womb and who has guarded them and who has promised His best. And do I not trust His best? Have I not seen His ways unfold and His provision in the lives of so many around me? In me?
To rest in that. To rest in Him.
I look at the frozen chai, now melting. And the pure white of the whipped cream flaked in brown pungent spice. cinnamon.