Fear

I am afraid.

There, I said it. That's such a hard thing to admit sometimes - that you're afraid. Of something, of everything. 

But then again . . . of nothing.

I am afraid of time. Weird? Everyone is afraid of time. We don't have enough, we're running out, it's passing too swiftly.

We're aging, we're getting old. Not really, but gradually, aren't we all?

"Take therefore no thought for the morrow: for the morrow shall take thought for the things of itself."

I wondered tonight when seventeen year olds started looking young. Really, Kelley? Come on. You're only twenty. But believe me when I say that by the time I turned sixteen, I had been sixteen for five years.

I might be slightly exagerating.

When I was seven/eight/nine I wanted to be "grown up" so badly! I absolutely could not wait to be cool - or at least, what I perceived as cool. My parents tried to slow me down, and as best they could, they did. But I was determined to be like the teenagers. I wonder if it started even before the time I thought it did, because I've been carrying a purse around with me since I was young enough to carry a diaper in it . . . by the time I was able to walk, I've been able to carry a purse.

Not girly in the least.

(Pretty sure my family is rolling their eyes as they read this.)

But I wish I could go back and reclaim those years. Even the years of eleven, twelve, and thirteen, though maybe not so much the awkwardness that accompanied them. I lived those years in the anticipation of the coming ones, not stopping to enjoy the moment, and live in the day. Ever the dreamer, I could only envision my future.

These days I feel like I live only for the day, avoiding thoughts of the future and the pain it might hold. But by doing so I deny myself the thought of possible joy and elation. If my teen years were beyond what I had hoped, why shouldn't my twenties be any better?

I'm purposing to make them the best I possible can, but the fear of mistakes and failures nibble at my thoughts, and I allow worry to creep in.

And once again, I have opened the door to fear.

"For God hath not given us the spirit of fear..."

My youngest nephew Tanner is a year and a half (18 months, for those weirdos who count babies ages in months) and he is deathly afraid of bubbles blown from bubble gum.

I'm talking screams, tears, bury-his-face-in-your-neck, sobbing, terrified of them. When I chew gum around him, he stares at my mouth convinced, I'm sure, that at any moment a bubble will burst forth and attack him.

He is also nearly as afraid of play dough, and Jace (a little over four years old, 52 months to be exact ;) ) greatly enjoys chasing him around the house with it.

I love him to death, as we all do, and he gets spoiled, so don't think we're mean, but when this happens, it is one of the funniest things I've ever seen. The first time it happened, we were all laughing so hard we had tears in our eyes and yes, we kept blowing bubbles.

We know there is nothing for him to be afraid of. The bubbles will not hurt him, and he's perfectly fine if you're only chewing the gum so yes, we are amused by his fear. We will always do everything in our power to preserve him from real harm, and even when blowing bubbles, he trusts us implicitly. He has nothing to fear, yet he is still afraid, and this is funny.

How then, must our fears look to the Lord? 

We know He is here and everywhere, all the time. We know He has promised to protect us, we are His children, He loves us to death, and will do everything in His perfect power to preserve us from real harm. His definitions are different from ours, but His grace will always protect us.

And yet, we are still afraid. Does this make Him want laugh at our insignificant fears? Maybe. And oddly, I find comfort in that. 

  

" Be strong and of a good courage, fear not, nor be afraid of them: for the Lord thy God, he it is that doth go with thee; he will not fail thee, nor forsake thee."

My fear of time . . . He knows no time.  He has not given me a spirit of fear, I can rest under His wings. This thought is so comforting to me, that "...when my heart is overwhelmed, lead me to the rock that is higher than I."