I am alone.

We drove to Utah over the weekend to celebrate Caleb’s birthday.

We rode rollercoasters at Lagoon and rediscovered the joys of the tilt-a-whirl.

We sat next to each other on the bench at church. David had his arm around me the whole time.

David and Savannah flew back to Arizona to work. Somebody has too.

This morning Caleb and I worked our way through leg day together.

Afterwards I dropped Ethan off at EFY and then took Caleb shopping so he would have something besides four-year-old cargo shorts and worn-out tennis shoes to wear.

I helped him pack his car, bought him a soda and a cookie for the drive back to Logan, hugged him hard and waved him goodbye.

And then I walked into the little house I am renting, alone.

The house is quiet. I brought a lengthy list of things to tackle and accomplish, which looks ominous and overwhelming from where I’m sitting now. It’s so quiet I can hear the refrigerator running in the other room.

I have been looking forward to this open week for months. A week to work. A week to catch up and make serious progress and perhaps even get ahead. No laundry to fold or countertops to wipe or meals to prepare. Just me and my laptop and my own brain.

But now that it’s here, I’m seized by fear and doubt. Where do I start? Which is the right project? What if I don’t get it all done? What if I do it wrong? What if I waste this opportunity? Why is it so quiet in here?

I have had a feeling running under the surface since I said goodbye to Caleb.

It feels an awful lot like panic.

With just a smidge of bereft around the edges.

Because with everyone gone and my usual responsibilities momentarily abdicated, I am left with just myself and my own mind (and its serious concerns about my ability to do what I need to do) for company.

Compared to my hilarious and entertaining weekend companions, it is a poor replacement indeed.