The Giant

So there was this giant: towering and gloating and donning a yellow suit with golden buttons.

And he came in the midst of a carrot harvest, the girls and the mama’s and the nana’s all pruning back the leaves and pulling up the roots.

It did not take long for his large eyes to spot the bent farmers and the plucked carrots. He lumbered toward them, hungry for ripe and raw and joy-filled things.

And then, she woke up.

O. started with low whimpers. And they eventually swelled into fearful cries. Across the hall, still dark, we held her and heard of the giant-thief and his crushing, hairy feet and the toppled trees tipped in his wake.

A simple hug and a kiss settled Olivia back under the cool covers, peaceful and assured.
But the image of the giant and the terrified harvesters kept me up well into the early morning.

Its haunting, isn’t it? The whole scene— the ravaging and plundering and scattering— it resonates with the unconscious fear that many struggle to sleep though.

Especially those of us neck deep in ministry and community life:
The violent robbery of every planted seed.
The fruit of soul-fused labor snatched up while our fingers are still several inches deep in the soil.

What if the gentle work, the patient tending, the trust and grace and hope are all ripped away?
What if this giant, much like Paul’s lion, “steals, kills, and destroys” every last evidence of life?
Every last sign or hope of redemption taking root?

This giant was a stalking nightmare for a toddler and yet a living, almost tangible fear in me.

I finally woke again to her pattering feet down the hall.
It was light, and the giant was now still.

But after a full day, when it was time for sleep again, the image of the giant reemerged into our little one’s imaginative mind and loomed threatening:
Will the giant come again? Will I wake up afraid tonight, too?

And what can a mama say? Is there anything to really promise?
In good conscience, I cannot vie against a reoccurring dream, for we’ve all had a midnight image play and replay before our mind’s eye.
One cannot guarantee any avoidance of pain or fear or uncertainty, as much as a mother wishes she could.

In those long moments of Olivia’s waiting, I imagined my own secret prayers against the giant of failure, pleas against the threat of deteriorating dreams.

What could a father promise a child in a world off its axis? In a world good but still spinning off course?
What does anyone hang on to when you are about to take the biggest of leaps or step to the plate or drift off to sleep?
What about in those final moments where life here and the mystery to come begins to blur?
And then there is that last exhale of letting it all go?
What can we say then?

“Love,” I finally conceded. “Olivia, you have to trust that you are more loved than you are afraid.
By me and your dad and Benson and God. Love is more real than fear.”

With a kiss, she drifted off. And she slept every dark second in peace, surrounded by the hope of a home full of love.

So she is sleeping now, and I am still wide awake in the truth of it:
Love allows us to let go.
Love makes us ridiculously brave.
Love does not negate pain or loss or failure or even death.

But we can release our soul to the sleep of both a night and a lifetime when we hold the Reality of Love.
Its power.
Its density.
Its permeability despite circumstance.

And it is made of holy things much more real than anything to do with fear.