Something about fear

Hey fall. You’re here, you’re back. Dammit. 

Lately, you’ve meant two things. The chilly, whimsical wind on my nose, thick coats, and Gilmore Girls. And the familiar tightening of my lungs, the shorter days, my harrowing mind. My body reminding me of my struggle with anxiety. My chest started that familiar squeezing about a month ago when your cold weather tantalized us, the sun retreated early, and pumpkins started appearing on doorsteps. 

My body’s reaction to you: shallow breathing, mind racing, staring off at nothing—anything to escape the fear that seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere. 

It must be a seasonal thing. I wrote something similar this time last year, about the wind slicing through the buttons of my fanned and the familiar phantom of fear that lurks behind my shoulder. I hated him. I hated him because he used power that didn’t belong to him. 

I couldn’t ignore it anymore. Last Friday night in DFW airport, when the terrorist attacks happened in Paris, a somber heaviness hung over the terminal as passengers gathered around TV monitors to hear the devastating news. An Army soldier sat with his back to the window, eyes watching with sobering determination. A family of four sat on their luggage, huddled together in a circle, kids’ eyes rounded with confusion and worry, parents eyes narrowed with a protective awareness. Dozens of people digesting this with one common response: fear. An airport’s just not my favorite place to chill during a terrorist attack, ya know? 

Fear came up again during a drive to Texas. A rainy drive. The kind where you can hardly see the white lines of the road, where the flooding on the Interstate makes your car skid and hydroplane, where 18 wheelers passing you at 45 mph feels like a train barreling through a river. 

I gripped the steering wheel, hummed to myself, and kept going. Enduring. Just a little bit farther. Eventually, I endured 70 miles to my exit. The next day, I made the two hour trip home. A sunny drive, but my heart was still full of fear. Don’t really know why. Every possible scenario of death, pain, damage, or terror was running through my head. I breathed deeply and slowly, trying to regulate the tightening in my chest. It was hard. Every moment was a test of endurance and hot flashes and lungs inflating and deflating. I made it to Ruston, to my parents’ house, and still had two hours to go before Jackson. I meant to only stay at home for a moment. To say hi, drink a cup of tea, and then hit the road. 

But I lingered for a while… Making uneasy conversation, agreeing to drink a cup of tea, then go for a walk, then watch a movie, and discuss the standby option of staying for dinner. I was biding my time, hoping that the fear would pass, that I would easily slide back into my car and endure the next two hours, but I was dreading it. 

I was exhausted from fighting fear. A month is a long time when your emotional and mental energy are fully engaged in battle. I tried to get ready to endure another two hours, but something kept stopping me. Something more than just fear. I needed rest. I needed to be comforted, held, restored. I had bruises and wounds from previous battles that hadn’t been tended. I needed to cry. 

So in between the walk and the movie, I took a sip of tea and started crying as I set my cup down. 

“I don’t know why I’m crying,” I told my dad across the counter. “I think I just need to.” 

Of course, he came around and just held me while I cried. I got to rest in my dad, grieving the pain and difficulty, trimming dead flesh and releasing infected lies. Washing them in love, in peace, in knowing that God has never left me or forsaken me. 

Mom came in next. 

“Y’all better not be doing something cool without me,” she said as she joined the group hug. 

“I’m just exhausted from fighting fear,” I said. “There’s just a lot of evil in the world and I’m not used to fighting this hard.” 

So I cried and they listened and held me. I stayed for a movie and dinner. Then I packed up my car and headed out for the last two hour leg of the trip and another 6 hour drive to Atlanta the next day. 

This time—post-crying—I felt ready. Weak and battered, yes. But ready to continue fighting and trusting. Each time I’m faced with fear, I dread the battle that is ahead, but in the end I always rejoice in the severe mercy of the Lord. Sorrow and pain is what produces the strength and joy that I long for. 

So, hey fall. I like you because you mean numb fingers on coffee cups and firewood and colorful sidewalks. But I also dread you. Because of shorter days and loneliness and unpredictable, irrational fear. But I’m thankful for severe mercy—where the sorrow is deep, the healing is even deeper.