Overcoming Fear

Come with me while I paint a picture in your mind. Imagine tall trees swaying in the morning’s high breeze. Mottled sunlight breaks through their tops, providing nature’s own camouflage, which dances on the ground below. A fire crackles while the smell of coffee brewing floats past. The leaves are just starting their fall show, the colors bursting on the tips. They rustle as they move in the cool air. A squirrel somewhere nearby is calling to its mate. A pair of blue herons flies over with a whoosh, majestically keeping watch.

The campground is still asleep as I take an early morning walk. I normally sleep well in our vintage camper, but last night I barely slept at all. Fear nags at me like never before: I’ve taken  the risk of going camping twenty-five miles away from home.

My sweet daddy suffers from a ferocious form of cancer, and every time I leave the proximity, I’m afraid I’m risking never seeing him alive again. Each time I go somewhere farther than work, I fear my mama will become overwhelmed and feel alone. Each time I fill a slot on my calendar, it’s a risk, and there is nothing I can do about it except to leave the rows blank. I walk alone in fear of the worst, the inevitable. This an intensely personal risk for me, but I imagine everyone has one.

My fear shadows other risks I take too. As a writer, I risk harsh criticism when I publish something I feel strongly about. I take a risk each time I share a story or when I quote Scripture. I fear losing my audience or being unable to hold their attention. I must continue to remind myself who it is I write for and why.

When I’m at work, I take risks by not shying away from my faith. I’m not exactly carrying my Bible around with me, but I pray when I feel I need to. I’ve seen an eyebrow raised a time or two in my direction. Because of my All I Need Is Jesus and Coffee T-shirt, some people walk the other way instead of having a conversation with me. I fear confrontation and persecution.

In church, I’ve always wanted to be the woman who worships with her hands raised to God, but fear prevents me from doing this too. If I raise my hands in worship, I risk letting go of everything and giving it to God for real. This one little act of worship is such a major risk for me. I don’t think I’m alone in struggling with it, but the struggle crushes me.

Learning how to overcome the fear risk-taking brings is a slow process. It takes faith and an amount of strength I never knew I was capable of. I have spent countless hours weighing the costs instead of just plunging forward when the Spirit says to move. I have sat and pondered instead of pursuing God and his will for me. I have held tightly to the things I know, which are a comfort to me, instead of letting go and letting God.

Let’s go back to that campground.

I sit by the fire after dinner, watching the flames dance orange, red, and yellow. They taunt me as if they know something I don’t. I waste fifteen minutes contemplating whether to drive to where I can watch the sunset or to walk there. It’s a risk to walk back in the dark. My husband looks at me and says, “Let’s just walk across the street to the cabins. We can see it from there.” I realize the fear of walking back in the dark almost prevented me from seeing the sunset at all.

After we get there, I stand snapping pictures of the sunset with my phone, and then I start to cry. The release is unbelievable.

I say a prayer of thanks to Jesus for pressing me to get away for a couple of days.

My fears can be alleviated if I trust all I know to be true and listen when the Spirit speaks to me.

I know I must continue taking risks, all the while giving my fears to the Father above, who loves me unconditionally.

 

Angie Dailey lives in rural Ohio with her husband and family. She spends her best and most important time with the Creator of the Universe and with her family. She loves coffee, Jesus, and gardening, but not necessarily in that order. Angie blogs at angiedailey.com.

Photograph © Bethany Beams, used with permission

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