Are You Tired of Being Afraid?

No use trying to sleep. My husband, Larry, was traveling. It was up to me to keep watch—or so it felt. I sat in my favorite chair and wondered, What’s wrong with me? Why am I so afraid?

My first flashes of fear started after Larry and I became engaged. Scenes of head-on collisions popped into my mind while we wound along Colorado’s majestic Big Thompson Canyon. I was in love—and happy—except for those disturbing images. My thoughts taunted me: bliss could evaporate in an instant.

Eighteen months after our wedding, the joyous arrival of our daughter tapped new fears. Her beautiful face and tiny fingers awakened a plethora of sleeping emotions—including a fierce sense of protection.

For me, motherhood came with radar for picking up tragic stories about children. I read about a child who died after walking too near a tiger’s cage at the circus and promised myself that my child would never go near wild animal cages.

My anxiety may have died away if a series of bizarre events hadn’t exposed my vulnerability. The trouble began during one of Larry’s out-of-town trips—on my birthday.

My friend Linda came over to cook supper since Larry was traveling. While we savored chopped steak smothered with grilled mushrooms and onions, the phone rang. I grabbed it, hoping it was Larry. (This was before caller ID.)

A male voice asked for Larry. “He’s not available,” I said.

“I really wanted to talk to you,” the caller said. He then asked me to lunch. I stammered a decline and jotted down his name and number.

“You sounded like you were getting out of a date.” Linda said.

“I was,” I said.

Larry finally phoned. I told him about the stranger’s call. I expected him to say the man was a harmless neighbor. But Larry had never heard of him. He asked me to have our friend Chris call him back.

Chris agreed. What he learned stunned me.

The name the caller had given me belonged to a dead man. The phone number belonged to his widow who lived across the street from the house we’d recently moved into. This wasn’t some random prank. The caller knew where I lived!

I called the local police station. The officer was not concerned. “Lady, it’s not a crime to use a dead man’s name.”

“But I’m married, and he asked me out.”

“It’s not a crime to ask you out either.” Then he softened, “If it makes you feel better, we’ll send a patrol car down your street.”

Having a police car drive down my street one time didn’t reassure me. Linda and I grabbed my three-month-old daughter and left to spend the night at her place.

I almost forgot about the incident until a crumpled note with a scribbled phone number and message to call “John” appeared on my front door. I gave it to Larry when he came home. Larry didn’t know John. He called the number. It went to a business where no one named John worked.

Another night, frantic pounding on our front door awakened us at three a.m. This time Larry was home. A woman who looked like a gypsy apologized, “Ohhh, wrong house.”

The night my fears came to a head Larry was away on another trip. Our local news urgently warned that a serial killer who targeted women my age was loose. He entered through open windows. Our sixty-year-old arts and crafts bungalow had no air conditioning.

Did I have to choose between suffocation and strangulation?

I planned escape routes in my mind in case someone broke in. But I couldn’t figure out how to get my baby and me out in a few seconds.

Exhausted, but too afraid to sleep, I prayed. Lord, please, deliver me from this fear. As an afterthought I added, why am I so afraid?

I immediately sensed His answer, “You don’t think I care enough or am strong enough to protect you.”

Was this true? I taught young women to trust God. Could this be about my relationship with God and not about my circumstances?

My mother died when I was a teenager. If God loved me and was able to stop harm, why hadn’t He spared her life? If He had allowed tragedy once, could I trust Him now?

Two questions popped into my mind. Did God love me? Was He able to protect me? To fully trust God I needed an answer.

Does God Love Me?

I pictured Jesus on the cross and remembered His anguish the night before His crucifixion. Jesus didn’t want to go to the cross, but He willingly endured the cross for me. “Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one’s life for one’s friends,” (John 15:13).

The cross irrevocably proved the depth of His love. I could not doubt His love.

Is God Able to Protect Me?

I turned to the second question. Was God able to protect me?

Genesis chapter one says God spoke,  and bam! What He said happened. That’s power! Christ’s resurrection alone proved God’s power. There could be no doubt. God was able to protect me.

If God loved me and was able to protect me, why had He allowed so much suffering to come into our family?

The fierce protection I felt for my daughter had taught me something about parental love. I realized that just as my baby couldn’t understand why I allowed her doctor to prick her with needles, I couldn’t understand God’s ways either. If I would do everything in my power to protect her, and God’s love is purer than mine, then the pain God allows His children to suffer must surely serve a greater purpose.

Joseph told the brothers who’d sold him into slavery, “You intended to harm me, but God intended it for good to accomplish what is now being done, the saving of many lives” (Gen. 50:20). God never said all things would be good, but He promised to use them to bring about good for those who love Him.

The evidence said God loved me and was able to care for me. Now I had to decide—would I trust Him?

I knelt and prayed, “Lord, I choose to trust You. If You allow the worst I can imagine, I will trust that it is because You have something planned that is better than I can imagine. I trust You to be with me through whatever You allow.”

Relief washed over me. That night I slept like a baby.

Ironically, the incidents stopped. God used those disturbances to expose and settle my buried doubts.

I can’t say I’ve never felt afraid since, but when fear creeps in, I return to God’s character. I can’t imagine Jesus to be more loving or more powerful than He is.

When I arrive in heaven and see my life’s story from His viewpoint, I won’t shake my fist and say, “I knew You messed up with my life.” I will marvel. I will worship.

Since I won’t be disappointed when I see clearly, I can rest in what I don’t understand now.