A trainer recently asked me if I had any goals for my new gym membership. The truth is no, I don’t. It’s glaringly true at this point in my life that the shape of my body does not endanger me, but the shape of my mind? This is the true threat.

I think everyone knows motherhood messes with your body, and that’s another post entirely, but I’ve never heard much talk about how it messes with your mind. In other roles I’ve had in my life (teacher, assistant, journalist, etc.), my mind has always been occupied on the task at hand. But staying at home with kids, that’s a different kind of job. I imagine it’s similar to being a trucker—miles of work ahead but the mind is free to wander. Also there are frequent caffeine stops and the ever-present threat of someone barging in when you’re trying to shower.

In the work of a Stay At Home Mom, the body is almost always engaged, but the mind is not necessarily, and it’s sort of like accidentally leaving the back door open and not realizing it until there are lots of flies inside. Other times it’s like accidentally leaving the back door open and not realizing it’s ancient Egypt outside, and the flies in the house reach plague status.

Just about anyone else, I imagine, is also vulnerable to a plagued mind, but I’m a SAHM with four billion flies buzzing in her head, so I’m going to write from that perspective, and my prayer is that these words will form a giant plague-abolishing swatter, or at least a giant neon sign that says, “Kindly remember to close the back door.”

Like most moms I’ve asked, I have a collection of scary stories that I keep in my brain. Some stories are borrowed from Facebook and friends, some stories were created by my brain without my permission, and worst of all, some stories actually happened to my family. These stories are a dangerous library, all the right information an enemy needs to create an explosive that will devastate my soul. If they are recounted at the proper time, these stories assault me, paralyze me, ruin me.

There have been at least two events added to the library recently, each completely knocking the wind out of me at their onset. Then my brain recounted them one, two, three, a hundred times, each recounting leaving me grasping for breath, unsure of truth, shaking in fear. These are the symptoms of a mind surrendered to its own stories.

Moms know what I’m talking about: that fall where the kid lands funny, the two minutes when you can’t find her, the haunting call from daycare. These moments remind us that we have no control, that our love for our kids is devastatingly deep, that terrible things happen. Sometimes it has nothing to do with kids: the words that cut to the core, the medical scare, the conversation that ended in rejection, the moment you realized betrayal.

I struggled through my recently-added stories for days, playing them on repeat, trying not to play them on repeat, and then playing them again anyway, like a bad jingle you just can’t quit. Then, in the middle of the night, I jolted awake saying words that never mattered much to me before: The helmet of salvation (Ephesians 6:17). I placed my hands on my head, said it again, and then I got it.

Salvation has been the word that won’t leave me alone this past year. The one resounding theme is the safety of the unfailing, indiscriminate rescue of the Gospel. Perfect Jesus allowed himself to be wrapped in shame, brutally killed, buried and enclosed in darkness. A devastated world is left waiting, God’s work still incomplete, God’s people still confused, as hopeless as ever. Then, as the ground shook, the same perfect Jesus stepped out, full of life, bearing the memory of death on his skin but abolishing its power. It’s true on the pages of my Bible and it’s true on the screen of my computer and it’s true everywhere. Everywhere. Wherever I go, it is true. And I am always safe inside this story, whether my mind acknowledges it or not.

Whether my mind acknowledges it or not.

When I was in crowd and felt all alone: The gospel is true here.

When I was in a house surrounded by inconsequential chores: The gospel is true here.

When I had no words to speak, no words to write on the blank pages: The gospel is true here.

When I was in a place that once was home but no longer wanted me: The gospel is true here. 

And now, when my mind wrecks havoc on my soul: The gospel is true here. I take my head in my hands: The gospel is true here. And I am always safe inside this story. No matter what stories it uses to assault me, the gospel is my mind’s protection. The helmet of salvation.

Salvation is not just designed to save me from my sins. It also saves me from my mind. 

When my library of stories begins to assault, the Gospel story is like the giant fish that comes and swallows everything else up. Telling and retelling myself the Gospel story has trained me to know foundational things that deplete the power from even the most terrifying stories my mind can tell: Jesus is more powerful than death, He did not shy away from pain to show love, and forgiveness is mine forever.

Because I know the Gospel story, I already know the end of all the stories: God is the ultimate resolution, the Alpha and the Omega. My past, present, and future is secure in him. The last word is always His, as is every word before. 

So while I wait for my resolution, my mind can be safe in that which is already resolved: No pain, sin, or death can exceed Christ’s love. The sovereign God that chased me down with His grace is the same God that saves me from my mind on a regular day in stereotypical mom yoga pants that are covered with toddler grime, when my brain won’t stop tormenting me with the image of my hurting baby. Here too, the Gospel is true. 

Every day since, when fear/regret/shame start to hiss, I literally grab my head and whisper, “Helmet of Salvation.” It’s weird, but I’ve decided not to feel weird about it. I believe the Gospel is true, and I want the truth of it to wrap around my head, protecting my mind, like a helmet.