The Night is for Stillness

(AKA Adventures in Panic Attacks and Ambulance Rides)

The room was spinning.

I shook from head to toe, freezing underneath every blanket on our bed.
My body went rigid as every nerve ending seemed to fire at once.
It felt like someone had rammed a sock down my throat and I couldn’t find air to fill my lungs. But my mind couldn’t discern if it needed to inhale or exhale so I just gasped for whatever breath I could find.

Lord, it is night. The night is for stillness. Let us be still in the presence of God.

I don’t remember where I first heard this prayer, but I do remember how striking it was to hear. It comes from the New Zealand Prayerbook. The rest of the prayer goes like this:

“Lord, it is night. The night is for stillness. Let us be still in the presence of God. It is night after a long day. What has been done has been done; what has not been done has not been done; let it be. The night is dark. Let our fears of the darkness of the world and of our own lives rest in you. The night is quiet. Let the quietness of your peace enfold us, all dear to us, and all who have no peace. The night heralds the dawn. Let us look expectantly to a new day, new joys, new possibilities.”

The night is for stillness. Let us be still in the presence of God.

Yes. That sounds wonderful. I often long for this stillness and an awareness of God’s comforting presence in it. But there was no stillness this night. 

“Call an ambulance! I need help” I pleaded, although no pleading was necessary. Michelle was already dialing 911. 

Zachary climbed into the bed with me and tried to help me calm down. 

It is night after a long day. What has been done has been done; what has not been done has not been done; let it be.

Oh God, how I wanted this day to be done, but it felt like this night would have no end. There was no peaceful letting go. There was no, “What has been done has been done.”

The paramedics arrived. All my vitals were fine, but nothing in my body felt ok. My breathing got faster. My heart was racing. Wrapped in a thin blanket with my socked feet and the ankles of my bigfoot pajamas hanging off the edge of the stretcher, they loaded me into the back of the ambulance. We followed the same path I travel day in and day out on my way to work at the hospital, but this felt so much longer than my normal 15-minute commute as I shook and continued to gasp for air. 

The night is dark. Let our fears of the darkness of the world and of our own lives rest in you. 

We came to a stop and the chill hit me again as the back doors opened and the paramedics lowered the wheels of the bed to the asphalt of the ambulance bay and led me through double doors I’m used to seeing from the other side. My breathing settled a little bit. Maybe it was the familiarity of the space. Maybe it was the confidence I have in those I know who were about to provide me care. 

“Room 27,” she said. Thank God. Thank God I’m not going to room 24. I’ve seen too many things happen in room 24. 

The night is quiet. Let the quietness of your peace enfold us, all dear to us, and all who have no peace.

Quiet isn’t a word we use in the hospital. It’s not superstition. Ok, maybe it is. But we don’t say “quiet” because we know that any sense of quiet we may have can explode into cacophony without warning. Plus… it’s never really quiet. There is always a pump churning, a bell going off, someone pressing their call button, bodily noises, code alarms, nervous chatter, knocks on the door… it’s never quiet. And it’s never quiet for those (like me) who would rather be anywhere else in the world than behind those doors wearing a thin gown and laying on an uncomfortable bed. My logical mind was in a shouting match with my irrational mind… and irrationality was winning the argument. All of the monitors and scans and x-rays and blood tests said I was fine. But I was NOT fine, and everything exploded out of me all at once. Whatever toxins were having their way with my insides finally came out and suddenly I could breathe again. The warmth returned to my body. I lay there, weakened and sad. The love of my life at my side, strong and beautiful as ever.  

The night heralds the dawn. Let us look expectantly to a new day, new joys, new possibilities.”

I had a stomach bug. It sounds so trivial to say. A stomach bug, as common as that is, sent me spiraling into the worst panic attack of my life. And then it was gone. All the tests were coming back clear. My pulse rate started to return to its normal level. Breathing came easier and easier. And we waited. Hour after hour we waited as each test result returned “normal”. Just before dawn, I was cleared to go home. A co-worker wheeled me through a different set of equally familiar double doors and sent us on our way.

I didn’t see much of the next day as my body surrendered to the absence of sleep from the night. But I woke the next morning in the same spot where this all began feeling more like myself again. 

The sun was shining. 
The night had come and gone.
It was a new day with new possibilities.

There is no promise of an absence of night.

There IS a promise that God will not be ABSENT at night.

Amid the chaos and the noise, the gasping and shuttering. Through the tears and the cries for help, the stillness of God remains. So I pray, 

Lord, it is night. The night is for stillness. Let us be still in the presence of God.