Escapism at its best

After my annual checkup, I was back at the doctor’s office to hear the results. Before she told me how healthy I am, I told her about the stresses of the past year—my husband’s CLL, our granddaughter moving in and her problems, and my husband’s recent heart attack. She asked how I was doing with all of that, and I told her that when the pressure is on, I usually don’t get emotional. Instead, I become absent-minded, forgetful.

Her response surprised me. She said, “Oh, you remove yourself from it.”

That had not occurred to me, but I’ve been thinking about it ever since. It sounded negative, as if I was running away from problems, but I think that is sometimes what I am doing, without really thinking about it. However, there is another way to escape, at least for a little while, that is more positive. I know this method also.

Escapism at its best is described in Psalm 91:1-2. It says, “He who dwells in the secret place of the Most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty. I will say of the Lord, ‘He is my refuge and my fortress; my God, in Him I will trust.’”

The first kind of ‘removing myself’ is about going blank, sort of like being in shock. The second one is an active escapism with my mind fully engaged. It is thinking about God in terms of who He is and what He does. It is recognizing Him as the Most High, the Almighty One who can do all things, and who does all things well and with loving mercy toward me. It is saying, if not aloud at least mentally, that God is my refuge. He welcomes me when I run to Him and protects me when I am assaulted by events, other people, emotional stress, anything that threatens my equilibrium and peace of mind. Just knowing Him and that He is there makes all my problems and threats seem much smaller.

Yesterday I found the following story in The Necessity of Prayer by E. M. Bounds. It was told by A. C. Dixon and quoted in Bounds’ first chapter.

“A dear friend of mine who was quite a lover of the chase, told me the following story: ‘Rising early one morning,’ he said, ‘I heard the baying of a score of deerhounds in pursuit of their quarry. Looking away to a broad, open field in front of me, I saw a young fawn making its way across, and giving signs, moreover, that its race was well-nigh run. Reaching the rails of the enclosure, it leaped over and crouched within ten feet from where I stood. A moment later two of the hounds came over, when the fawn ran in my direction and pushed its head between my legs. I lifted the little thing to my breast, and, swinging round and round, fought off the dogs. I felt, just then, that all the dogs in the West could not, and should not capture that fawn after its weakness had appealed to my strength.’ So is it, when human helplessness appeals to Almighty God. Well do I remember when the hounds of sin were after my soul, until, at last, I ran into the arms of Almighty God.”

The hounds do not have to be sin. They can be life at its worst, or trials that leave me feeling helpless. Whatever is after me isn’t the point. What I must remember is that I’m like that fawn trembling with something in pursuit, and God stands waiting for me to hurry into the protection of His presence.