Fear of Fear

I’m afraid of fear. I know, that’s redundant, but it’s also true. I’m not sure whether I was born this way or if it was something I learned, but the fact is, I run the other way from fear. I act as if it doesn’t exist, or shouldn’t, and that often appears like confidence, bravery, or callous irresponsibility - but it’s really fear in a costume. 

I’m in a program that speaks of living life surrounded by a hundred forms of fear. We share how we’ve coped (badly) with all those fears and learn from one another about better ways to live. As a wise person said, fear is going to be in the car with us; the trick is not letting it drive. As we make our way through these strange times of the coronavirus, it might be helpful to acknowledge the fear that sits beside us in the car and work to not let it take the wheel.

Someone once told me fear is like a road sign. It’s there to warn us and to make us aware of potential danger ahead. I’ve recently found fear as a sign pointing me to my need for faith. It doesn’t remover the danger, nor quell the fear, but it reminds me that I am not in this alone. I must do my part, but then I need to trust that God’s got this, God’s got me, and God’s got you. In fact, God’s got the whole world in God’s hands, as the song goes, and that’s something important for me to remember when the world around me is consumed with fear and it wants to drive the car.

I often think of something a classmate described when we were in seminary. He was in a swimming pool trying to teach his son how to jump (and later dive) off the diving board. His son, with knees shaking, stood at the edge of the diving board paralyzed with fear as he thought about jumping. In the water below, however, was his Dad. With arms opened wide, he called out and said, “I’ve got you.”

I stand on the edge of the diving board daily. It’s alright for my knees to shake, but, rather than focus on my knees and the fear causing them to shake, I want to look to the one below, the one with his arms opened wide saying, “I’ve got you.”

Always lower, eventually to the sea

I guess my fascination with water flowing came when I was a boy racing sticks with my cousins along the curb after a big storm. Walking on the sidewalk as the sticks jockeyed for position, I marveled at how fast they traveled before being swallowed by the drain at the end of the block.

“Where do they go now,” I once asked.

“Somewhere lower,” my cousins replied, as if it were obvious. “Eventually to the sea.”

Since then, I sit beside every stream I come across and watch as the water flows. Over and around rocks, under logs, it never gets old. Staring and wondering where the water is headed, I hear my cousin’s wisdom, “Always lower. Eventually to the sea.”

It is equally true of God’s grace. In the light of Easter morning, I celebrate the overflowing love and forgiveness brought into the world. Reading the familiar story this week, I thought about how something that happened so long ago still travels into the world, daily. It goes where it will, over and around rocks and under logs, but it flows, still.

But what struck me this year is that it flows “somewhere lower.” It travels down into the gutters, descending to reach the lowest points it can. Never does it climb up, always down, and that’s good news for those of us who live beneath the heights of Golgotha. Sometimes unable to climb the chancel steps where the adorned minister offers poetic prayers, the water flows toward the pews where a man gasps, “God, help me, please.” It flows past the upper parking lot where the fancy cars are parked to where the nurse arrives for her second night shift, then continues its way toward the house where there’s an empty seat at the Easter meal.

When I accept the wounds and the emotional scars I carry, the water always finds its way to me. When I ascend to higher ground, surrounded with my self-created magnificence, I’m suddenly beyond its reach. So, today, in light of the wonder of Easter and the humility my spiritual mirror brings, I laugh and dive into the stream again. Bobbing up and down, I travel beside others as we head toward the sea – soaked, and gratefully so.

Holding on, and letting go.

I arrived early for the sailing adventure. I was honored to be included on this voyage with accomplished sailors and tried to walk down the dock with an air of confidence. In each arm I carried groceries so I could feel like I was offering something journey. Like the person who shops when hungry, the bags were stuffed with more than we needed. “I’ve got this,” I said as I turned down assistance in boarding the boat. I made it and was walking toward the galley when a sudden gust of wind rocked the boat causing me to drop the bags and reach for the mast. As oranges rolled into the bay, and broken eggs began to seep through their containers, I was too mortified to look to look up. Little did I know what an important lesson I was being taught, one that is particularly germane at a time like this.

Like everyone, my regular life has been altered by the coronavirus. Whether by staying home, attending meetings electronically, and only waving to others from afar, a huge gust of wind has come and rocked our routines and ways of looking at the world. It has been disconcerting, to say the least, and we’ve had to reach for something solid, something permanent like the mast on a ship, to steady ourselves. To do so, however, we’ve had to let go of many things we carry, things we once thought were essential.

The ship will settle, and it may take time for us to let go of the mast, but we will stand again. Hopefully, when we do, we won’t be so quick to carry so many things in our arms.