A long-awaited echo

I generally operate under the assumption that once I write something, I'm done with it, it's time to move on. I'd like to believe that once I have thoughts down on paper or screen, they are forever imprinted on my mind and heart, fully embraced and incorporated into my life. Lately I've realized that this isn't always the case. My words don't die once they hit the page -- nor do they go to rest. I need to allow them to live, to continue to speak to me, even though sometimes I wish I could quiet them.

In a recent conversation, I voiced some of the fears that so often hold me back. I wish that they wouldn't, but in all honesty I have to admit how often I am afraid; how often fear stops me from living the abundant life that the Lord offers me. As I talked, as the word "fear" echoed in the dark corners of my mind, something I wrote last year came back to me. It was around this time of year, and some of the rocks I had been building my foundation on had fallen in an unexpected flood of truth. I was left feeling weak and unstable, constantly afraid of what would be lurking around life's next corner. The following words came out of that brokenness and uncertainty; I mustered up my courage and poured them out into my own tiny stream of truth. Now I find myself needing to drink from that stream once again.

Fears
February, 2005

This is my fear: that this is life. More questions than answers. No guarantees. No promise of earthly security. Changing. Always changing. Constantly redefining normal.

This is my fear: cynicism. That I will or have already become cynical, jaded. Everyone will be guilty until proven innocent. Expectations will be low and rarely exceeded. Hope will be increasingly hard to find.

This is my fear: missing grace. Ignoring grace. Rejecting grace. Trying to live without it and wishing others would do the same. Void. Empty.

This is my fear: facing my fears. Choosing to notice grace, to accept it, to extend it, to use it as my guard against cynicism. Letting grace fill me up and give me what I need to embrace this life and whatever it brings.

This is my fear: being grace-full. A soft heart, quick to love but also quick to hurt for the pain of others. Pain. Grieving for those who are still missing grace. Angry at those who won't accept it.

This is my fear: the pain of love. Grace and love are bound together, and where grace goes, so goes love, into the heights of joy and the depths of pain. Love means hurting when another hurts. More tears. More tissues. More sleepless nights.

This is my fear: the power of love. Love has the power to change us, to make us better, and the power to make us vulnerable. Love can strip us naked. Within that vulnerability, when our guard is down, there lies the power to wound -- or be wounded by -- another, deeply.

This is my fear: that there will always be something to fear. Choosing to play it safe and avoid living in grace and love. Choosing a life that is less scary and less painful, but surely less real and less full.

This is my fear: that I will let fear win.

This is my choice: I choose to face these fears head-on. I choose not to let fear and hopelessness and cynicism win. I choose to take the path built with steppingstones of love and grace, even though I don't know where they will lead me.