“They do not fear bad news; they confidently trust the Lord to care for them.” Psalm 112:7
I remember the way the phone hugged my ear and grew hot against my skin as the words poked through the speaker like tiny needles stabbing me all at once. The culmination of months of gut instincts, small whispers and night terrors coming alive in an ear-piercing symphony through one stuttered admission of guilt.
I’ll never forget the way the bite of my crockpot chicken and artichoke dinner tasted on my tongue as I listened to my mom’s story of how the cancer had returned. I can still see the soft sliced cherry tomatoes sitting on the mound of chicken, waiting to be enjoyed, yet losing all attraction.
I can still feel the stiff prickly fabric of the couch against the back of my legs as my parents sat us kids down to share the news that life was changing and the house that held our memories would soon be in the rearview mirror of a yellow moving truck.
The sting of bad news. It pinches and then it twists. It knows exactly how to rev up the heart and send blood gushing through veins like a flash flood. It’s fierce and quick. A band aid ripped off. A warm blanket snatched away. Bad news delivered swiftly doesn’t cool the burn. Whether a paper is ripped slowly or quickly, it’s still torn.
I find that when I’ve collected enough heart dropping, stomach turning news deliveries, I tend to wait for them. I squint one eye and carefully watch for them in my inbox. I look for them in my friends’ texts, and I listen for them in my boss’s tone. I search for the delivery in the phone’s ring and inside the envelopes that pile in my mailbox. I’ve trained myself to coil and brace for bad news. I’ve taught my spiritual, emotional and physical self to fear it.
“They do not fear bad news; they confidently trust in the Lord to care for them.”
I mull over these words. This command. If I trust confidently in the Lord, then I won’t fear bad news? What a relief this would be to my heart. I searched through my memories for proof. Could this be true?
I think back to those dreadful deliveries. The news was painful, yet the journey was covered in grace. The news was the last-minute drugstore card stuck on the outside of the box. The handwriting was messy and the message was crass. But once I took my time slicing through the tape and peeling back the flaps of the box, I realized God was presenting a gift. Himself. He was in the mess and the months, and sometimes years, of walking through the trial. Sure, I winced at the note, but that didn’t define the gift.
Maybe I can’t quite empty my mind of the string of bad news deliveries, but I can remember what was on the other side. When I recall that I was able to confidently trust God through each step of the way, I can genuinely shed my fear of bad news. I quickly realized that it wasn’t the scenario that terrified me as much as it was the label of it. How silly. I was afraid of the title of a murder mystery or the name of a bully.
As I recall all the rocky paths God has walked with me through, I know without a doubt that I can trust him. I train myself to take a deep breath when I feel that old nudge warning me to buckle up, and I sigh with relief that no announcement has the power to cripple me.
So, instead of remembering the way my heart dropped at the sprint of the news, I remember the way God embraced it during the marathon of the trial. Instead of recounting the way my stomach squeezed at the words, I recall the way He gave me peace in the night.
I choose to trade my sorrow for joy and my bad news for His good news.
