Across the Yard

My husband and I have always taken care of our lawn and gardening together. He always cut the grass and I planted the flowers. We both pulled weeds and laid mulch. We both tended to the pond.

Three years ago, I contracted Lyme disease. I don’t know where—not geographically, not where the bite was on my body. But I had it, confirmed by a blood test. The symptoms were no joke and I didn’t fully begin to feel like myself again for six months.

The thing that lasted longer than six months was fear.

What if I get bit again?

What if the symptoms are even worse?

What if they don’t go away this time?

What if the atrial fib is worse and stays this time?

What if … what if … what if?

Paved paths or even wider dirt and gravel ones without overgrowth became my go-to places to enjoy being outdoors. Dowsing myself in insect repellent became more important to me than sunscreen. Once I even sprayed the spokes of my bike tires and the inside of a port-a-john. Overkill, I know.

I also know what it felt like to have Lyme.

And I didn’t want it again.

Rick would still do yard work. And I’d find a reason that doing something in the house was more important. And I stared out the sunporch window longing to be outside. Even the year we had the yard sprayed by TruGreen didn’t help my courage.

It took me three years to walk in our yard again.

It took me until I got tired of letting fear rule my life.

It took me until I recognized that my fear was asking for a guarantee that life couldn’t give.

I started with small steps.

I pulled weeds where I could kneel on the sidewalk. I planted pots of flowers when I could stand on the driveway and then carry them and reach their placement without being in the grass.

Last week, I looked out at the corner near the pond that had become overgrown.

“I’m just going to walk over and look at it,” I told myself.

That was all.

Not pull weeds.

Not spend an hour outside.

Just walk across the yard.

Before I knew it, I was pulling a few weeds before I even changed clothes.

Then I put yard work clothes on, fully dowsed myself in tick repellent, grabbed a box and gloves and started seriously pulling weeds and cleaning up the corner near the pond.

For the first time in three years, I was working outside with my husband again.

Could I guarantee I wouldn’t get a tick bite?

I couldn’t.

I used tick repellent.

I changed clothes in the laundry room.

I took a hot shower.

I did everything I knew to do to protect myself.

And without guarantees, I faced the fear and worked in the yard.

As I washed off the dirt and sweat, I realized I hadn’t been waiting for courage.

I’d been waiting for certainty.

Fear asks for certainty. It keeps telling us, “When you know you’ll be okay, then you can move.”

But life rarely offers those guarantees.

We tell ourselves that when the fear goes away, we’ll do the thing. Except the fear doesn’t go away.

Sometimes...

We must do the thing.

Only then do we discover fear beginning to loosen its grip...

So that we can reclaim our lives.

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