Fight or flight?

I was a senior in high school when I got stung by a bee during cheer PE. We were practicing our jumps when it happened, right on my shoulder blade. I ran up to our coach to let him know what happened, and sat out for a bit before sucking it up and joining the crew again. 

Maybe an hour or so later, we were practicing our stunts. As I was standing there, helping to hold our flyer in the air, a bee landed on my chest. I immediately noticed it, and without even thinking, my instincts kicked in. 

I ran. 

Yes, I ran away from our stunt group. Leaving the other two girls to hopefully catch our flyer as she toppled towards the ground {they did}. 

It took me a minute or so before I even registered what had just happened, and that's when my instincts took over again. This time, with profusely apologizing. 

***

It was 2011 and I had been working at my very first full time job for about a month, or so. It was time to figure out how to incorporate working out into this new schedule of mine, since the whole sit at a desk for 8 hours and then spend the rest of the night on the couch routine wasn't gonna do any good for anyone. 

I decided to start running during my lunch breaks. And guys, this was pre-Amy likes running days. Our office was a mile and a half from the beach, and I think the first day I probably got half way before turning around to run (slash walk) back. 

Each day I got farther and farther. One day, I'm gonna make it to that beach, I told myself. 

And one day, I nearly did. I turned around to make the run back with new confidence in my stride. And feeling on top of the world, I nearly missed that my foot was about to land on a giant snake making his way across the trail in front of me. 

My foot landed hard on the ground, just as his head whipped to look me in the eye. 

No, this is not the same snake. Really think I stopped to take a pic?

I bolted in the opposite direction. 

And that's when I signed up for a gym membership. 

***

They say when crisis hits, you are either conditioned to fight, or flight. I think it's pretty clear which of those two categories I fall in. I'd like to think I'm a fighter, I really would. But all signs point to the fact that I am most definitely a flee-er. 

It's no wonder I came to like running {insert corny laugh here}.

Lately, life has been pretty overwhelming. Mostly, in good ways. Overall, I'd say I've been overwhelmed with some pretty huge blessings. 

But the key word is overwhelmed (in case you didn't catch on by the fact that I've used that word 3 times in the last 4 sentences). A lot of change was thrown at me in a very short amount of time, and for the first few days, I rolled with the punches. 

I smiled, rejoiced over the exciting things, and brought the uncertainties to the foot of the cross. I praised God for His goodness, and prayed over the decisions to be made. 

I was walking through all of these unexpected changes as you would imagine a Christian would.

That is, until I wasn't. 

Until I found myself crunched up in the corner of my room, on the phone with my mentor, crying ugly tears. The kind that are usually always paired with hyperventilating. 

Until I found myself saying into the phone "I'm overwhelmed. I don't want to deal with this. I want to run away."

And every fiber of my insides wants that. Every instinct inside of me is telling me to run, and fast. 

Because that's how I handle stress, and uncertainty, and fear. I run. I run fast. And I'm good at it. 

But that's not how God wants me to live, is it? 

He wants to turn this flee-er into a fighter. And it's my prayer that I can put all of those instincts inside of me aside, to listen to the only one that truly matters. To listen to the one that tells me

Be still. Listen. And trust.