Dear fear,

I’m really sick of you, you know.

Sure, you’ve lingered around me since I was small, taunting me from time to time with normal-kid-fears.  Robbers.  Our basement.  The dark.

But now.  It’s as if the moment I conceived my first child, you and your cousin, anxiety, waltzed into my life, unpacked your bags, and settled in for the long-haul.  Well, let me just tell you: y’all have overstayed your welcome.  Get out.

You, fear and anxiety, have this really annoying tendency to ruin a perfectly good day.

Like this scenario: I’m going about my normal business when I hear sirens.  Lots of sirens.  Heading down the road in the same direction of my kids’ school.  I promptly think of Sandy Hook.

Or, how about this one: Matt’s on his way home from work.  He’s late.  I call, and he doesn’t answer.  I swiftly conclude he’s been in a horrific accident and is receiving CPR on the side of the road.

You see, you really mess me up sometimes.  You pinpoint my greatest affections and you go right for them.  Like, my people.  You know I love my people something fierce, and that’s exactly where you like to show up.  You try to needle your way into the spaces of my heart filled with love for my children, my husband, my people, and then you have at it.  You fill me with all of the “what if?”s until I can’t even think straight.  Like you own me.

I guess, sometimes it seems like you do.

You, fear and anxiety, tell us to beware of “the bad guy,” but what if you are one of the baddest guys of all?

You are, you know.  You’re a bad actor.  A thief.  Your presence steals my time and my thoughts and my joy.  You’re also a liar.  Because when you enter the scene, you’re whispering to me that God does not love me.  That He doesn’t see me.  That He doesn’t care.  That He’s not in control.

Fear, you try so hard to convince us of these lies because we both know- it’s the only way you stand a chance.  We’re told, “There is no fear in love, but perfect love casts out fear” (1 John 4:18).  Which means, fear, you are shunned.  Kicked out.  Given the deuces.  There is simply no room for you in the presence of God.

The God who does love me.

The God who does see me.

The God who does care.

The God who is absolutely in complete control.

Here’s the deal, fear: you’re asking the wrong questions.  Your question should not be, “What if X, Y, or Z actually happens?  What if your worse nightmares come true?”  Instead, the question should be, “Who’s even in charge here?”

And to that, I answer, “It sure as heck is NOT YOU.”

Peace. Out.