More often than I would like, I am afraid.
Afraid for my children’s health. Afraid of who they will grow up to be, because I don’t always handle my own emotions well. Afraid for their safety in Mozambique. Afraid of how living at two ends of the world — as if only partly belonging to each — will shape them. Afraid for my own health, because they need me. Afraid for Tony’s health, because we need him.
I could go on for a long time. Anyone could. Listing the things they are afraid of.
But that’s not really the point.
A few days ago, standing in the shower, some difficult family stories resurfaced without warning. Almost immediately, fear turned them into unlikely scenarios. My breathing became shallow and my heart started racing.
A slow, steady breath and turning my thoughts away from those scenarios brought me back to myself. Turning toward the Lord.
And yet, once I was calmer, I still dropped the plate I was carrying from the kitchen to the dining room with a stack of waffles on it.
This is not the first time something like this has happened to me.
The last two years have brought recurring, persistent physical symptoms. My body has been thoroughly examined, and it is healthy. The doctors have found nothing. It looks like chronic stress.
God had already shown me this some time ago.
That I am not sick.
I am worried.
And that was when I began to remember.
How I used to ask my mother a dozen times a day whether anything was going to happen to her.
How every little physical symptom immediately sent my thoughts into the darkest, most catastrophic places.
How, back when we lived in Pemba, a city vulnerable to terrorist attacks, I would lie awake imagining a group of men with machetes entering our house in the middle of the night.
And what would happen to Joseph then.
And what kind of mother I was.
I am discovering a lot here. I’m not sure I always feel comfortable with what I find.
But I also think about those who, like me, need freedom.
Because I don’t want to be afraid anymore.
I know this much: freedom from fear does not lie in the promise that everything will be okay.
Freedom is found in revelation:
I don’t know what will happen to me.
But I know that whatever happens, He will be there.
He sees.
He knows.
He has the power.
He is able.
(Luke 12:4–32)
When we love someone, we can drive ourselves crazy worrying about their well-being and their life.
Unless we encounter the God who is.
Because if we build our sense of security on wishful thinking — on the belief that nothing bad will happen — it will always be fragile. There will always be something new to be afraid of.
But if security means trusting Him — the One who loves my children more than I do — then they truly are safe.
And I no longer have to hold in my own hands what I could never hold anyway.
“Do not be afraid; just believe,” Jesus said to Jairus, whose daughter just passed away. (Mark 5:36)
Something difficult happening in your life does not mean God does not see you.
Loss does not mean God has lost control.
Danger does not mean God has disappeared.
And it’s not even about reaching a place where we are never afraid.
It is about bringing our “I’m afraid” to God immediately.
Like David did in Psalm 56.
Of course, breathing helps. Quiet minutes woven into the routine of the day help too. Less caffeine, more lemon balm tea. Walks in the woods. (Add your own.)
But only the truth sets us free.
His truth. (John 8:32)
His Word.
Being with Him, rather than merely being around Him.
This is what sets the heart in the right place.
This is what builds Kingdom convictions within us. (Romans 12:1–2)
So that when trouble comes, He is our first refuge.
And His Word, our first response.
So that in seasons of relative peace, we can live with light hearts.
Without fear of tomorrow.
He sees.
He knows.
He has the power.
He is able.
He is with you.
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