Last Monday we said goodbye to our youngest, Holli, a vivacious 16-year-old, and sent her on a missions trip to Mexico with a church group. Tuesday morning, we got our last text from her before she crossed the border and the leaders took all cell phones (there was no service anyway) from the travelers. It’s been six days since I’ve heard anything from her. And it is the longest I have ever gone without contact from one of my children. Even my college daughter usually touches base–thank you, facebook and phone texting–once every day or two.
There’s a part of me that wants to panic. What are you doing and why haven’t I heard anything? Well, I already know the answer to that question. I know where she is and I know why I haven’t heard, in fact no news is good news. If something were wrong, I know group leaders would be contacting us. But what my head tells me and what my heart screams are two different things.
Stop, Janis. Take a deep breath. She is fine. You know she can’t call or email. You know you would have heard if she was not okay.
So why do I have to constantly remind myself of those facts to stem a rising panic?
Partly because the sensation of no-contact with one of my kids is so foreign to me and partly because once again, I feel so out-of-control. There it is again, that helplessness that paralyzes my common sense when I feel that there is absolutely nothing I can do to change a situation. I can’t just pick up a phone to text her or check on her. I cannot drop her an email. Or even text a friend who’s with her. She is totally out of touch and in God’s hands.
The funny thing is, that’s where she is all the time anyway. Even when I see her everyday. Even when I can text her at a moment’s notice.
In God’s hands.