I was five years old and tucked into a bed that was pushed up next to a quaking window. Outside, tree branches bent and swayed beneath slashing sheets of rain and house-shuddering winds. Tornado sirens were blaring while lightning lit up the sky every few seconds. I remember curling up into as small a figure as I could in hopes that I would be safe. If I stay small, maybe it will miss me. My grandmother was in the living room watching the news, no doubt, but I was afraid. Of course she knew what was happening outside. I know now that she would have pulled me into the bathtub and covered us up with pillows and blankets if the storm had really been pressing down on us like I thought it was.
I’ve mentioned anger being rooted in fear, and we all know that anxiety is rooted in fear…and sometimes I think everything I struggle with has something to do with the fact that fear is my heart’s default. It’s my pre-redeemed factory setting. I’m pretty sure I came out of the womb this way.
Illness. Loneliness. Lack of provision. Rejection. Natural disasters. Death of a loved one. (Death in general.) Loss. Broken relationships. Crushed hopes. Accidents.
Some things I’ve experienced, and some are the worst nightmares that I’m sure are waiting around the corner of my next uncertainty. Being prone to toe the line between what seems like normal fear and the need to hyperventilate into a paper bag, I have had to learn to combat my fears with truth. Some of the things that petrified me as a child have little effect now. Storms today don’t scare me like the ones of my childhood. My grownup fears are more complicated and more deeply rooted, and they don’t pass as quickly as a rumbling mass of clouds.
Fear can twist my stomach into a knot so fast that I know I won’t eat for a long while. It can jerk me awake in the dark when I’ve finally felt safe enough to doze off. Sometimes it’s my overactive imagination and a result of too much what-iffing. Sometimes it’s a lack of trust in God’s sovereignty over my life. Sometimes it’s the whisper of the enemy, spoken in my ear at just the right moment because he knows how given I am to unraveling.
I’ve been fighting fear for as long as I can remember.
So, it’s no wonder that I’ve had a fearful child under my roof.
I often wondered if his childish fears are somehow a reflection of what he sees in me. Did I show him how to be afraid during that spring when he was two and severe storms seemed to roll in every other night? Did he internalize my frequent fretting over our tight budget? Does he pick up on my anxiety and take it as his own?
I’m learning not to dwell on all the ways I have probably failed–am failing–my children. Nothing good comes from guilt. Maybe my son did borrow some fear from me. Or maybe it’s wired into his DNA to be fearful like it seems to be in mine. The “why” may not always be important when it comes to raising a fearful child (and honestly, I can’t think of a child who hasn’t struggled with fear at some point). What IS important is teaching him how to confront whatever he’s afraid of. As I seek to put fear to death in my own life, I’ve pared down my responses to my son’s fears to one thing I can’t promise and one thing I can. In the middle of the night or at the end of a broken confession, there’s not really mental space for much else.
Here’s what I can’t promise:
I can’t promise his physical safety.
Let’s be honest, moms. We want to tell our kids that they’ll always be safe, and that God will always keep them safe. We think we’re making much of God when we say this, but we can’t promise those things in good faith. We could have a car accident that results in very unsafe bodily harm. Either of my sons could develop a terminal disease. War could come to our shores, or natural disasters. I cannot promise my kids they will always be physically safe, and so I never do. God doesn’t always spare us from physical suffering. It might make my son feel better in the moment if I tell him he’ll always be safe, but that’s a promise I’m unable to make or keep. I’m not going to set up for him a faulty view of God based upon something that isn’t actually promised in Scripture and can fracture with the first painful thing he encounters on this broken planet.
Here’s what I can promise:
I can promise that his heart will be safe.
When it’s the middle of the night and lightning brightens the dark sky while the windows rattle with thunder and high winds, I lie in bed with my son and assure him that God is with us and that He controls the storm. I talk about Jesus standing up in the boat and yelling at the raging sky and sea. It’s one of my favorite things about Jesus—His authority. But storm aside, this is when I promise my son that God keeps safe the ones who follow Him. No one and no disaster can steal us out of His hands because His authority extends beyond the physical to our hearts. “When your heart belongs to Jesus, your heart is always safe,” I tell my son. He wants to know if he is safe, and I assure him that ultimately, in Christ, he is. “When you belong to Jesus, He keeps your heart safe,” I tell him.
Maybe you want to know if it helps.
It does.
I watch fear lose its power when the realization comes that God is in charge. Darkness flees in the wake of God’s strong arm. Fear is shattered when the promise of God’s presence sinks down deep.
Soul security that is anchored in Christ is the best thing I can offer, and it is the thing our fearful hearts need the most.
My sheep hear my voice, and I know them, and they follow me. I give them eternal life, and they will never perish, and no one will snatch them out of my hand. My Father, who has given them to me, is greater than all, and no one is able to snatch them out of the Father’s hand. I and the Father are one.
John 10:27-30
I’ve failed many times to encourage my son to confront fear rightly; some days my own poor wrestling with anxiety speaks louder than my midnight promises. But I take what I can and cannot promise and confront my own worries about the future as I mother my kids. I cannot promise myself that they will always be safe, wise, or good. But I can promise myself that if they follow Christ, then their hearts are forever safe in Him. When I take apart my fears and sift through what’s at the center, knowing that their hearts are safe cures my fear. And then my panicked pleas are shaped into prayers for them to follow Jesus with their whole hearts.
In Him is the only safety I can promise.
The Lord is my light and my salvation—
whom shall I fear?
The Lord is the stronghold of my life—
of whom shall I be afraid?Psalm 27:1
Glenna Marshall is married to her pastor, William, and lives in rural Southeast Missouri where she tries and fails to keep up with her two energetic sons. She is the author of The Promise is His Presence (P&R) and Everyday Faithfulness (Crossway), and Memorizing Scripture (Moody). Connect with her on Instagram, Facebook, and Twitter.