Every year it seems I forget just how dark it can be in the morning. Each day, I expect a hint of light to greet me from the skies while I drive to work, but find only repetitive darkness as I succumb to the fact that we are quickly being buried deep into the belly of autumn. Still a month away from the solstice, the weather seems it has already subjected itself to winter with hints of snowflakes coming and going as they please.
This season, I feel uncomfortably thrusted into the holidays with little graceful guidance or warning for preparation. Then again, this season of life has been one where discomfort has seemed an indissoluble companion. Even the city where I presently reside, though exciting, still feels unnatural. As Louisa May Alcott so aptly put it when she moved to New York, “this new place is strange and I feel strange in it.” After six months you would think the strangeness would melt off, uncovering some sense of great purpose and higher calling. But, I’ve found it doesn’t always work that way. To claim that this life should be filled with comfort and naturalness would be foolish. In the midst of serving and following an extraordinary God, I can’t assume to lead an ordinary life.
One thing I can bank on is God’s faithfulness. And in recognizing His unmatched faithfulness, I recall that every moment of my life that was obviously marked by blessing was not a time of cozy comfort, but a time of uncertainty and, often, accompanied fear.
There have been times I was so afraid that my body has responded in an uncontrollable state of trembling. At 20, I remember sitting alone on the plane to India, aware of the fact it was too late to go home. Body shaking, I was uncomfortably sandwiched between an obese man and the cold glass of the circular plane window against my forehead as I intentionally pressed myself into it, attempting to avoid the body odor and physical contact of the unfamiliar man next to me. I just started to weep, the humming of the plane’s engine preventing anyone to hear. I tried pulling out the table in front of me to write, but the fat man’s right leg was impeding all of my personal space. I was trapped. I felt lonely, like I was a child again—entering into complete unfamiliarity with the knowledge that re-entering into the comfort of my mom’s arms was months away. I cried out to Jesus. I asked Him to be close to me. I remembered what He asked of Joshua, “Have I not commanded you? Be strong and of good courage; do not be afraid, nor be dismayed, for the LORD your God is with you wherever you go.” It invoked hope, but the fear refused to dissipate. It was hours before my body finally stopped shaking, and retired from exhaustion I fell asleep.
Fears didn’t flee in India; they piled high. Not only was the culture unfamiliar and communication near impossible, the workings of the spiritual world were blatant—much more obvious (and frightening) than anything I had ever encountered at home. The first two weeks, there were many nights I didn’t sleep because I was so filled with fear. Not only was fear stealing my rest, it was making time move slowly and home began to seem a place untouchable and so far from reach. But God had told me he would be with me wherever I go, and He loved me too much for my life and service to Him to be eaten away by something as irrational and paralyzing as fear.
At the beginning of my third week in India, a family from Houston, Texas, came to visit Rameswaram (where I was staying) for one day. They turned out to be the only westerners I saw over my entire visit. The Texan woman had come to speak at a women’s gathering in the Indian church that day. I sat on the ground somewhere nestled in the back of the room, my white face out of place amidst rows of clean, brown skin. The Texan woman began to preach about prayer—she was fiery about what she was saying, an Indian pastor translating every word into Tamil, the Indian women’s heads bobbing from side to side with agreement. As she was bobbing along the stage in her white sari, her excitement abruptly halted as she began staring at me straight through the crowd. Her eye contact was piercing. She opened her mouth after a long pause. “Honey”, she said in a compassionate way with her endearing southern drawl, “you have fear written all over your forehead.” I felt like I had been shot straight between the eyes. She was right on and I knew it. She proceeded, with the guidance of the Holy Spirit, to tell me all of the reasons I was afraid—things rooted deep in my past that I hadn’t shared to a soul in India, much alone with anyone back in the U.S. She paused for a minute, “I’m not embarrassing you am I?” she said. “No, no” I said back, a bit befuddled that she even asked (since no one around me spoke English and the translator had long since stopped speaking). I am sure the women around me were confused with her tenacity. Hundreds of eyes were on me, but I didn’t even care. I was singled out and it was just what I needed. I was overwhelmed with the thought that God loved me enough to speak to me directly through a woman who didn’t even know my name. “God wants you to rid your life of fear,” she said. “He wants you to walk out of this room today and not let fear follow.” I was surprised at how much of what she said emphasized the choice I had to make. I knew that my fear was not subtle; it had been a life-long companion since childhood that had followed me around like a pesky wanderer, paralyzing me for as long as I could remember. I was ready to be free. I knew I needed to choose God’s truth over my fear. That day, the entire church full of Indian women prayed for me. I remember going up to thank the Texan woman after the service, but finding it perplexing that she seemed a stranger when I chatted with her. I realized something was different when she was speaking to me in the crowd from the stage. The Holy Spirit had given her discernment beyond human knowledge or ability and that it was Jesus speaking to me in that moment, not her. That night as I went to bed I didn’t feel alone, I felt known. I had never before felt so known by God. It was humbling and my only response was to surrender. I surrendered my history of fear to Him and I was filled with a peace I still don’t understand. After that experience, fear continued to creep up but it never assailed me. Choosing trust over fear time and time again ended in blessing and my courage and faith began to build as a result.
This morning, nearly three years after India, I found myself driving to work in the stillness of almost-winter darkness. I think the greatest discomfort of darkness is not knowing just what’s in front of you. Fears, like liquid, began to run through my mind. Fears about relationships, the future, unanswered questions. Feeling defeated, I just started to cry. I thought of a beautiful picture Bruce Cockburn painted through the lyrics of one of his well-known songs:
“Nothing worth having comes without some kind of fight
You gotta kick at the darkness till it bleeds daylight.”
That’s just it. This dark morning, just as that day in India, I wanted God’s peace to reign in place of fear. But through the struggle and discomfort of fear, we have to choose God’s peace and truth for Him to give it to us. And it often takes a spiritual battle of the mind for that to happen. But as we stand there, kicking the darkness of fear in the face, our feet bloodied by each blow, daylight does begin to enter. It seeps in small breaks at first, then suddenly it begins to pour forth like an uninhibited flood, covering every inch of our being—even areas we didn’t know existed.
