The house of cards I had meticu-
lously built over the years was falling
apart before my very eyes. The things
that had seemed to anchor me were
either gone or morphing into some-
thing unfamiliar. From my career to my
financial status, from my relationships
to my physical, mental, and emotional
states, I felt powerless. I felt vulnerable.
I felt unstable. I was lost.
“What is going on, Lord? I need
help,” I said, as I drove into my drive-
way, passing the “For Sale” sign on my
front lawn.
“I have enough equity in my house
to just sell it and buy a small townhouse
or condo,” I’d said to my parents.
Unable to get a job for almost two
years had put me under financial
strain. We lived in an amazing house in
a great neighborhood, and money or
the lack thereof was a definite fac- tor
in choosing to put my house on the
market after living there for more than
seventeen years. I wasn’t sure if I was
doing the right thing, but I had to do
something. Another card in my per-
fect world falling down.
I just needed help.
Help in knowing what to do and
where to go.
Help in deciphering the truth of
God’s Word and how it played out in
my life.
And, most of all, help in keeping my
sanity and peace as opposed to the
worry and anxiety I felt every day.
The next morning I stood in front of
my bathroom mirror consumed by the
image staring back at me. It wasn’t
the kind of “Girl, you are working it!”
moment as much as a “Girl, you look a
hot mess and need to get yourself to-
gether!” moment. You know when you
see those before and after pictures
in the magazines and are amazed
by how good the after picture looks?
Well, my life was kind of like that, only
the reverse.
My normally long, perfectly styled
hair was neglected and unkempt.
I couldn’t afford to go to the hair-
dresser, so between my home
remedies and the premenopaus-
al-stressed-out-sweat- like-a-maniac
incidents, my hair was breaking off
in clumps. Also, this season of wor-
ry and anxiety had turned me into a
full-fledged chocoholic, so my usually
semi-fit physique was transforming into
some foreign specimen I did not rec-
ognize. The “Ms. America look” that
was once a mandate before walk- ing
out of the house was now a thing of
the past.
“Mom, my hair is falling out! My
stomach feels like I might have an
ulcer. Oh, and I still can’t get a job!” I
whined to my mother over the phone.
I was anticipating, even goading her
into some sort of consoling remark
that would soothe my “woe is me”
moment. But instead of sympathy she
responded as if she were watching a
stand-up bit on Comedy Central.
Here I was, sharing all the heart-
break moments that make up the
perfect lyrics to a blues song, and this
woman could not stop laughing! Al-
though I tried to act insulted by her
insensi- tive response, her laughter
evoked a reactionary bout of laughter
within me. Before long we were both in
tears. Classic.
Once we finally composed ourselves
enough to hear each other speak, she
said, “Girl, you went from a peacock
to a feather duster.”
The word picture was like a buck-
et of ice-cold water being poured
down my back. She was right on. As
I pictured a peacock I immediate-
ly thought of its grand appearance
and the value that was assigned by its
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