I glance across the playground to the teenager crouched at picnic
table, cell phone in hand, fingers moving across tiny keypad, cap pulled low,
basketball shorts rippling in the warm afternoon breeze.
“Micah, no, we aren’t going anywhere. That guy isn’t paying
any attention to you. You begged to come to the park, now GO play with you brothers.”
Micah panic-grabs my arms, pinching skin, pulling tiny hairs
(ouch!). Tears roll down cheeks as he grabs my waist with both arms and buries
his face in my yellow shirt.
“Micah, remember what Daddy told you--think about God’s
promise to keep you safe. Can you remember your verses?” As Micah’s tears seep
through my shirt, my eyes squint into afternoon sun, watching Josiah hang from monkey bars and Isaiah stumble-climb up
winding steps to slide. I pat Micah’s back saying, “Tell me your verses.”
Micah muffle-speaks: “EventhoughIwalkthroughthevallyoftheshadowofdeath—breathe—Iwillfearnoevilforyouarewithme—breathe—Can
we go, now!?” (Psalm 23:4)
“Micah, you can’t just say the words, you have to believe
them, live them, and the fact that you are crying and pinching me tells me that
you aren’t believing God will protect you . . . .”
But for the last six weeks or so, no amount of praying,
verse-memorizing, or talking it through has helped Micah overcome his
irrational fear of “bad guys.” Gone are his innocent, “I can beat up any bad
guy I want” days, and here-for-now are the “every stranger might be an
evil child-snatcher” days.
At the beginning of this new phase, I was patient mom—I knew
Micah needed time to work through his fear. But when routine trips to the
grocery store and library became tear-filled battles, I felt frustration rise,
and when Micah invented his own way of dealing with his fear: “Hey, if I talk
to every single person I’m afraid of, then I won’t be afraid anymore!” life got
complicated. I found myself explaining: “No,
Micah, we can’t talk to the tattooed man sitting on the side of the road
smoking a cigarette, not without Daddy, that wouldn’t be wise.”
And scolding: “Micah!
Why on earth did you open the front door to a complete stranger and strike up a
conversation?! You NEVER open the door without permission!”
And instructing: “Micah, it’s good that you wanted to talk
to that man in the library, but next time, don’t tell him you think he’s a bad
guy. That might hurt his feelings.”
And arguing: “Micah, of course the strange guy sitting on
his back porch is looking at you. You’re staring at him! If you stop staring at
him, he might stop looking back at you!”
And patient mom became JUST-GET-OVER-IT-NOW! mom.
Then God, through an unforeseen connection to my dysfunctional
family, revealed to me that I’m not much different than Micah—I too am
controlled by a “spirit of fear” (2 Tim. 1:7). I too fail to live this truth: “The Lord is my light and my salvation,
whom shall I fear!?” (Psalm 27: 1).
Continued in the next post: Battling Fear
