The word 'fear' itself doesn't enter my prayers, worries, or even consciousness on a regular basis. I've loved rollercoasters and the feeling of falling for as long as I can remember. I've been cliff-jumping, sky-diving and bungee-jumping. Public speaking isn't my favourite, but it doesn't paralyze me either. I have a decent enough amount of confidence to fake confidence in most situations. I'm terrified of snakes, mind you, but that's not an issue that rears its proverbial head much in my day-to-day. I wouldn't generally describe myself as afraid, so I almost skipped today's verse.
But I didn't leave it out and now it won't leave me either. I might not have the kind of fear that makes my heart race and my knees knock, but I have a nagging, subtle, beneath-the-surface fear that drowns the stirrings in my heart before they have a chance to become dreams.
I keep having these glimpses into what could be, but the fear I haven't wanted to label as fear makes me glance past them. I don't dare dwell on them, imagine what they could be, let them grow in my dreams, or hope for them. The fear I never acknowledged is stealing the hope I never put into words.
I want to hope. I want to dream the mother of all dreams. The one He put in my heart. I want to abandon myself to a radical, foolish, careless, enormous, ridiculous hope. Even as I type the words, I recognize the fear in that vulnerability.
"When I choose hope, when I choose to engage in that awkward intimacy of believing that He might say no while asking expectantly that He say yes, my heart opens in a way it never does when I’m careful. I’m forced to search Him out, to wrestle with Him. And in so doing He gets the most beautiful part of me."
- Sara Hagerty
The Lord is with me; I will not be afraid.
What would I hope, if I wasn't being careful?
What would I hope, if I had no fear?
No comments:
Post a Comment