Prelude to a Pit: A Question Mark

**Just getting started? Head back to day 1 of Prelude to a Pit: Just Another Day to read from the beginning**

It's a Sunday afternoon.  I swallow hard.

Lord, where are You?

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"Always ask questions," my mother would tell me as I grew up.  "It lets people know that you're interested in them, not just yourself."

I can fire off questions like nobody's business, but today, I'm told not to.

No questions.  Be quiet.  Listen.

I realize almost instantly how hard of a habit this is to break because all my mouth wants to form are questions.  They leap from my throat, and my tongue fights them back to keep them from reaching my lips and the outside world.

Steady, steady, I tell myself.

Today, questions are the enemy, and I've got to do everything I can to fight.  So I sit and fight silently.

It's gotten colder, I notice.  The breeze has picked up.  The quiet is oppressing my soul.  On the outside, I'm calm, frozen.

But inside, I'm dying.  Dying.

I'm thankful for Harlow's talkativeness today because it's distracting in a good way.  I chase her and sit, exhausted from the lack of sleep and long plane ride.  The TV provides a respite for my nerves and my energy, as she pauses to become enraptured with Tinkerbell and her fairy friends.

I'm waiting.  Quietly.

And then I hear it.  My worst fear.  It's subtle.  But today I'm tuned into every nuance, every slight change, looking for hints and answers to the questions I can't ask.

Zzzzzzziiiiiiiiiiippppppp.

I bite my lip and hear my heart crack.  I want to ask, but why?

Don't I already know?

Harlow's attention span shifts, and she's now scooting Tupperware across the kitchen floor, slamming cabinet doors along the way.

The clickety clack over the hardwood is clear enough to answer the question at the front of my mind.

I'm still when it's over, bursting forth with questions and pain.  Harlow gives a whine, and I pick her up and take her to her room.  I hold her close, rocking in her chair absentmindedly, hoping she doesn't see the fear that washes over my face.  But there's worry in her little face, and it saddens me.  I comfort her between breaths of trying to comfort myself.

For the questions.  They no longer matter.

**Tune in tomorrow night at 7 pm for day 4 of Prelude to a Pit: Every Hour**