On That Safety Blanket we call Fear

Fear.

In this life, it seems just as inescapable as suffering. Both have long been my unwelcome companions, but it dawned on me recently that while suffering is a hallmark of the Christian life, fear and anxiety are decidedly not.

The Word tells us in a thousand different ways to seek peace, to not let our hearts be troubled, that worrying won't add a single second to our lifespan. It also tell us to take up our cross in union with Christ's cross, and to rejoice in our sufferings--not out of some twisted masochism, but specifically for the fruit they will bear, and because they are nothing compared to the glory of the Kingdom that awaits.

I think we all clamor to agree with this wisdom, even pressure ourselves to snap our fingers and be at the endstate already, without acknowledging the necessary process of learning how to get there. For the longest time I both ran from my cross and treated anxiety as something I could just ignore away, instead of learning to acknowledge and address it in healthy ways. Indeed, we comfort-seeking humans spend so much more time and effort trying to escape suffering as opposed to admitting our need to release our death grip on fear and anxiety. Rather the opposite of what the Word commands, yes?

A few years ago I started turning the tables on this imbalance and began to address my fear and anxiety head-on. This morning, after doing more exhausting work--diving deep into the thick of my fears, standing toe-to-toe with that endless expanse--it suddenly became so clear:

Fear is the result of letting my expectations, my hunger for control, rule over my openness to God's plan for my highest good.

I'm afraid of redirection from what I think [from my limited vantage] must be best. I fear that my plans--which often seek surface-level comfort or intrigue or self-serving notoriety--might get derailed. I hope and plan and pine for any number of must-haves and must-dos until I'm crazed by the prospect that I might, for any number of reasons, have to let go. And the resultant fear and anxiety happily pitch a tent and stay awhile.

It finally hit me today that whether His plans neatly coincide with mine or not, His motive in allowing for a change of plans is so selfless and simple: saving souls. He orchestrates our path not to derail us, not to flaunt His omnipotence in the face of our wrought-iron expectations, but to continually lead us to the situations and people that can best lead our souls--and theirs, too--to eternity.

If we let Him, that is.

As the one [probably horrifically paraphrased and/or falsely attributed to Mother Teresa] quote says, "We are at Jesus’s disposal. If he wants you to be sick in bed, if he wants you to proclaim His work in the street, if he wants you to clean the toilets all day, that’s all right, everything is all right. We must say, ‘I belong to you. You can do whatever you like.’ And this is our strength. This is the joy of the Lord.”

Jesus, help me remember that Your change of plans carries eternal weight--both for me and the souls you want me to encounter.