Being strapped to a seat in the sky is one way to bring my nerves to life. I flew on a short plane ride last weekend, and although the view from my small slice of window was of a shiny blue sky with chunks of turquoise sea peeking through fluffy clouds, my muscles still tensed with each shift in movement. Each pothole in the heavens sent my stomach swirling. I led my mind to logical thoughts, but like a belligerent dog on a leash, it yanked and refused to leave the smelly pile of irrational ones. As I gave up on tugging, I remembered a conversation I’d had not too long ago with someone.
This someone was trying to prove to me that flying has an extremely low percentage of ending in a pile of flaming rubble, and she even reassured me that if my plane did in fact fall into that minute percentage, then I surely wouldn’t remember a thing because I’d be unconscious and most likely dead. Yep, dead. She offered a lot of facts that I knew without a doubt were true. I believed her. I stared at her, curious why she thought any of it had anything to do with my fear of flying. Death? I don’t mind thinking about it or even talking about it. I looked her straight in the eyes and confidently presented my argument.
“I’m afraid of being afraid.”
I nuzzled deep into my emotions, and pulled that sloppy argument from the pit, and I had no awareness of just how ridiculous it was. Present me the options of facing a fiery death or simply feeling afraid, and I’ll choose the flames.
Isn’t that interesting that the most logical arguments and factual answers have no chance against fear? At least, not my fear. As a child, I remember being afraid of silly things. The dark mystical creatures that lurked under my bed and innocent blankets draped over funny shaped things. How foolish. Yet, now as an adult my fears are merely boiled down to fears of fear. Wouldn’t all my years on earth have better equipped me with some more mature things to be scared of?
I’m ashamed to think that now being realistic or probable don’t even factor into my recipe of being afraid. I can watch a suspenseful movie full of realistic crime and horrifying images and still easily fall asleep in my quiet house alone. My friends insist I do a better job of checking my surroundings and being on guard when I’m out, yet I truly am not afraid. Anything to be afraid of out there is simply too practical.
It’s the nonsensical worries that rush through my mind like a rollercoaster. You know the type where you tug on the restraints to confirm you won’t fall out. I do that on the airplane seatbelt an OCD amount of times as well. Maybe you absolutely love the friendly skies and think my entire point is as useless as a Xanax on a one-hour flight, but let your mind dive into your deepest fears. You just might come back up with a handful of terrifying scenarios that only make you afraid of being afraid.
Anway, after realizing that my fear of flying was invalid, I wondered if my other fears had something in common. And if God did not give me a spirit of fear (and please, for the love of all non-turbulent flights, do not spit out that verse when my heart is begging to jump through my chest) …then where did it come from? Because, someone gave it to me. I might not be afraid of being alone in a dark house with real threats, but I am afraid of being alone. I’m not scared of a suspicious looking person in a store, but I am afraid of someone I trust hurting me. I’m not afraid of losing my job, but I do clam up during tough professional conversations.
My fears all look alike. Could they be just a fuzzy blanket tossed the wrong way over a chair? A monster created from two harmless things?
I’m not sure I have the answers to combat what seems so unreasonable, but I’ve learned that thinking it through, saying it out loud or writing it down is like flipping on a lightswitch in a child’s bedroom. See, nothing to be afraid of here. Maybe mom has to enter the room every night to do the lightswitch trick, but after a while, she’s not needed. Perhaps, even in a dark room, there’s a light that begins to grow within, spreading through the darkness of lies. And like a child who grows up to understand that a lightbulb doesn’t mitigate monsters, spiritual maturity begins to tell me the truth.
And as much as I resent the many ways the verse has been presented to me in the past, the truth is that God didn’t give me a spirit of fear. I can have a sound mind. But, it’s also comforting to know that He’s a God that doesn’t mind tiptoeing down the hallway, slowly cracking open the door and whispering that it’ll be alright as he flicks on the light.
