Yep. Big ole' carpenter ants. At my office. So we called Landlord and Landlord set up ant traps. Landlord stopped me in the parking lot and explained how they work:
The ants go into the trap.
Take yummy tasting bait out of the trap to their homes.
Feed the yummy tasting bait to their families.
Die. Out of sight, in their homes.
Lovely.
The grossed out business professional in me loves this plan. No more ant carcasses in my waiting room.
The tired, hopeful, raw sacred in me was disturbed by this plan. Not so much for the ants, but for my babies. It made me wonder what poison I'm collecting out in the world and bringing home.
Scary news coverage.
Arguments with insurance companies.
Unsettling health concerns in friends.
When I take a step back, I realize that under the influence of this poison, I feel scared, irritable, and helpless. And I can think of a couple of typically-around-bedtime-or-meals-or-just-trying-to-get-out-of-the-house moments when Kiddo 1.0 & 2.0 feel scared, irritable, and helpless.
Bummer.
But then I remember the silly, snuggling, loved moments and wonder where those come from. Because,just like the poison doesn't just APPEAR, I don't think the balm does either.
Worship.
Community fundraising events.
Good music and warm coffee.
Therapy.
The poison is so real, folks. But so is the balm. And I really, really believe that we are powerful vehicles of both. But the insidious thing about the poison is we take it home to suffer alone. Like the ants, we're not dying in the waiting room. We're suffering out of sight. And while that does a really, really good job of protecting us from judgement, it makes the odds of rescue pretty slim.
My prayer this advent season is that we can be balm-bearers, not poison-portals. And when we succumb to the poison, we don't do it privately, but instead reach out towards the light of healers, in whatever form they come.
