This week until Friday I’m writing a three-part series about what panics me. This arose from a conversation I had with my husband in the church parking lot about things that make me jittery and fretful.
Today’s Panic? Pot lucks.
It’s not that I’m afraid of the food (although when we lived in East Texas, there could be squirrel or possum on the menu). I panic when I see a line of people putting food on their plates. I worry there won’t be enough, specifically for me. I may not even be hungry, but the moment I see a table of food and a herd of folks, my heart races and I vy for the front of the line.
This, of course, makes me panic even more because I remember those verses about the first being last, the last being first. Let’s just say I’ll be standing in the back of the line at the Feast in heaven.
As I’ve unpacked this strange fear, I realized that this may have something to do with a period of time in my life where I have no memory. Rumors are that I lived in a chaotic environment during some very formative years. It’s likely that during that time I had to fight for my food. Or maybe I went hungry.
Another time in my life, during young teenage years, I was often alone in the house and had to figure out my own meals. The upside? I learned to cook. The downside? I feared I wouldn’t have enough.
So this is probably why pot lucks panic me, though I can’t be 100% sure. I’ve learned to talk myself down, to not freak out when folks start shoveling jello and mystery meat on paper plates. I’m growing. But I’m still in process.