Page 55 of Anything (Mayberry University #1)

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

On my bedroom floor, I push my laptop out and fold into a butterfly stretch. When my chest meets my feet, a rush of nostalgia hits me—I used to spend hours in my room just like this.

It’s my first full day at home, and I’m trying to finish a paper so it’s off my mind.

I have a lot of praying to do, and I don’t want this springing to mind every ten minutes.

I meant to do it last night, but I was busy with my brothers.

I tried to apologize to Mav for not calling enough the last few months.

He fussed—he and Mia should start a club—and insisted my being here was better than twenty phone calls.

Later, my brothers and I practiced catching popcorn in our mouths while rewatching Grey’s favorite SNL scenes, laughing until our sides ached. It’s so good to be home.

“Hey, Kit girl.” Mom’s in the doorway. “Can we talk for a second?”

I save my draft and shut my laptop.

Mom slides to the floor with me. “I’ve been thinking. And praying. I know you value your privacy about … what happened this spring. I’ve been taping my mouth shut to give it to you, but I want you to consider something.”

I blink at her.

“You went through a traumatic experience, and you’ve never …

you won’t talk about it. Not to me or anyone, to my knowledge.

I want you to reconsider seeing a counselor, someone who loves Jesus and can speak words of wisdom and grace over you, give you strategies.

Someone who you think will ‘understand.’”

I gnaw on my lip. “I’ll think about it.”

She squeezes my hand and stands to leave.

“Mom?”

She turns back.

“Thanks.”

She sends her enveloping Mom-smile, better than any hug. “I love you, sweetie.” And she closes the door behind her.

A counselor? Do I have to?

I hem you in behind and before, and I lay my hand upon you.

Sophie. She mentioned a counselor out of the blue …

originally a trauma counselor. I feel unworthy to call my one-time scare trauma , but Sophie thought God wanted her to say it.

I grab my phone to ask her for the counselor’s contact info.

There might be a last-minute opening. I have so many questions.

Maybe I finally have the courage to ask them.

Time at home is like a steaming bubble bath on sore muscles.

I’ve been doing pique turns across the hardwood, choreographing languid mini-routines as I move from room to room.

On a mountain trail, fluffy snow squeaks and crunches under my boots.

The dry chill nips at my nose, but the fire’s warmth melts it away.

In the kitchen, I help peel potatoes and roll out crust.

I set aside hours a day to wander the neighborhood and to curl up on the porch with the heater and my knobby blanket.

Sometimes I read a psalm. Sometimes I write my own.

As rest and silence seep into my bones, God’s whispers grow louder and more frequent.

But even when I hear nothing, sitting with him in the quiet is enough. He’s always here.

The loss of what I wanted with Levi sits like a brick in my stomach, but it coexists with cranberry and pie and the best sweet potatoes on earth. I’m talked into a snowy game of touch football, and my brothers argue about technique as they teach me to kick it to a precise location on the field.

Another early morning on Friday, so I sneak downstairs for some Bible time and ballet practice while I have the living room to myself.

My mind calms and clears as I practice my fouetté turns. Shoulders relaxed and body tired, I fill a glass with water at the fridge. Dancing is the best respite from my own mind. Free and weightless, I’m distracted from my incessant worries, but the relief is fleeting.

Do not be anxious about anything,

but in everything

by prayer and supplication

with thanksgiving

let your requests be made known to me.

I’m reminded of what Mav said to me over FaceTime. “I’m not worried about this, and you shouldn’t be either. I’ve been watching God take care of you my whole life.”

He was right. You have.

And what else did he say? “You can trust that God’s plan is better.” It’s that mastermind idea again. I won’t need to be anxious if I really trust that his plan is better than mine. I sit on a stool and cradle the glass between my hands.

My plan isn’t working. I need yours. I want yours.

It’s better, right? Yours always is. I’m scared, but I trust you.

Thank you for taking care of me year after year.

Thank you for this house, my family, a perfect place to go to school, and the scholarship to pay for it.

Thank you for protecting me in April. Thank you for Mom and Mav and friends who make me laugh and tell me what I need to hear.

I imagine shoving cardboard boxes of worry out the front door, leaving them for God to take away. Worries about my mind, my nightmares, my safety, my sanity, my friendships, my family, my major, my future.

Here. I can’t manage all of this. It’s crippling. Take it. Please. You take it.

I’ve got this.

Another box looms, demanding so much brain space. The Levi box. It’s full to the brim of anxious questions, hopes for his present and future, missing his closeness and friendship, shame for hurting him, fear that I’ll never find someone like him again.

You’d better take this one too. I don’t want to give it up, but I’ve only made a mess with it. You handle it. You take care of him. You’ll have to be the one.

I’ve got this too.

Mysteriously, miraculously, I’m lighter. I’ve shed hundreds of pounds of mental weight. Something tells me I’ll be doing this again soon.

Remember.

Yes. The freedom of ballet—whenever I can make that happen—will be a reminder. I don’t want to let these boxes accumulate in my mind again. I have to lay it all back down. Again and again and again.