So, the Middle East is getting spicy again, huh?

World War 3 anyone? I mean seriously, can we please knock it off with the unprecedented times?

I’d be willing to bet we’re all some level of anxious about the Israel/Iran/US/Whoever-decides-to-start-lobbing-bombs war that’s happening right now.

For some of us who grew up in evangelical Christianity though, news of war in the middle east hits a little…differently.

Especially if you, like me, were a Christian 90s kid mainlining Left Behind and convinced the dial-up modem heralded the apocalypse.

Let me paint you a picture: First Gulf War kicks off on August 3, 1990.

Eleven-year-old me, thanks to peak Gen X parenting, is planted right in front of the TV watching live missile strikes on the evening news.

But the real trauma-drama?

That would be my parents, sitting there on the couch muttering about this being “it” – the start of the end times, every night over top of my head as I sat on the brown shag carpet eating microwave popcorn and watching the bombs drop.

Cue my eleven-year-old brain doing mental gymnastics through fire, brimstone, and the sheer terror of being left behind while all the “good” Christians got beamed up. My blood ran colder than an Ohio winter, and my stomach was flipping like I was on a Kings Island rollercoaster.

Bombs and eternal damnation?

Too much for one kid.

That summer, my closet became Fort Pillow, and my nightly prayers were less “Now I lay me down to sleep” and more “Please, sweet Jesus, don’t let me be the pasta water left on the stove of the apocalypse.”

Speaking of which, my church’s rapture sermon series that summer was less inspiring and more straight-up nightmare fuel.

Clothes piles where people used to be? Abandoned cars? Blink of an eye?

Thanks, Captain Muir, it’s not like I wasn’t already sleeping in my closet with the lights on.

Then came the day I walked into an eerily empty house.

Mom’s cooking mid-stride, ingredients out, pasta cold and still in the water on the stove. Her housedress on the floor. Dad’s chair? Knocked over and broken. My baby brother’s toys were still strewn across the floor. Her car was still in the driveway. Her purse sat on the telephone table with the keys in it.

My eleven-year-old brain INSTALTLY screamed RAPTURE! LEFT BEHIND! HELLFIRE!

Cue epic, hours long, snot-nosed sobbing in the closet.

Turns out, it wasn’t actually the rapture. Dad’s chair gave way while holding my baby brother, resulting in a minor, but very bloody, head injury and a mad dash to the ER.

No note. No phone call.

Just a terrified me convinced I was about to face the tribulation solo.

When the closet door creaked open hours later, revealing a shadowy figure reaching for me, my scream could shatter glass.

It was just my dad.

I slept in their bed for a month, and they became champion note-leavers, because apparently, my baseline state was now “impending apocalypse if parents are MIA.”

Armageddon was always just around the corner in my childhood.

That end-of-days anxiety pretty much shadowed me into adulthood.

Once I started picking apart my Christianity and really addressing my religious trauma, most of it faded away. But I have to tell you, the other day, when the news started blaring about bombs flying in the Middle East, that old, familiar anxiety began to creep back.

“Wars and rumors of wars. Chaos in the Middle East. Armageddon, the site of the last battle.”

It all just bubbled up again, accompanied by that unsettling question: “What if it’s true after all?” And in the back of my mind, I could almost hear my old preacher’s voice, booming, “You’d better get right with Jesus,” whatever that nebulous statement even means.

That little voice, my inner fire-and-brimstone preacher, whispered, “What if they were right?” and suddenly, I was eleven again, hiding in my closet of anxiety.

What the hell, man?

I thought I was beyond that.

And then I took a breath and remembered that just because I’m living a new chapter in my history, it doesn’t mean the contents of the prior chapters aren’t still there.

How very insightful. Thanks, Rev. Obvious.

Insert eye-roll here.

Anyway.

I’m telling you all this because I know I can’t be the only one out here in cyberland having rapture anxiety this week because two dictators decided to have a dick-wagging contest with their bomb collections.

So, if you’re feeling that familiar tickle of “Danger! Armageddon!” when the news cycle gets particularly apocalyptic, know this: your feelings are utterly valid and completely normal.

And if your brain starts dusting off those old “end times” thoughts, don’t worry, you’re not suddenly backsliding. It’s just your past politely (or not-so-politely) reminding you it exists.

These feelings can hit like a freight train, but seriously, it’s going to be okay.

So, how do we keep from spiraling into a rapture-induced closet-hiding session?

First, just acknowledge that the rapture bullshit has come up again.

Don’t try to shove the thoughts down or shame yourself for having them.

It’s perfectly fine to feel scared, anxious, or even a little ticked off that these old fears are rude enough to resurface. Think of it as a visit from a clingy ex — you can acknowledge it’s there without inviting it to move back in.

Next up, try some mindfulness.

When your thoughts start racing like a Christian rock band on a church-gym tour, hit the brakes and drag yourself back to the present.

Notice your breath – seriously, it’s still there.

Feel your feet on the floor. Engage your senses. What do you actually hear, see, smell, taste, feel right now? This is your brain’s way of saying, “Hey, we’re not actually in the Book of Revelation, we’re just here.”

And please, for the love of all that is holy (or unholy, your choice), prioritize self-care.

This isn’t just a fluffy phrase for bubble baths.

It’s survival.

Get some decent sleep. Put real food in your body. Move around a bit. Go outside and remember trees exist. Connect with people who don’t think every global conflict is a sign that chariots of fire are about to descend. These little habits are like building emotional armor against the world’s dumpster fires.

Finally, consider a news and social media detox.

Staying informed is good; marinating in doomsday scenarios 24/7 is not.

Set some boundaries. Maybe check the news for ten minutes in the morning, and then, for goodness sake, step away from the glowing rectangle of doom. Your mental health will thank you.

Remember, you are absolutely not alone in feeling this.

Many of us are still untangling ourselves from the lingering threads of past religious teachings. But by acknowledging where we’ve been, staying present, and cutting ourselves a little slack, we can navigate these chaotic times with a bit more peace, a lot less fear, and maybe even a chuckle or two.

Happy apocalypse, everyone?