Tag: Fear Page 3 of 7

I am a False Prophet

On August 18, 2019

Worriers are false prophets.

Edward Welch, Running Scared: Fear, Worry and the God of Rest

I am a false prophet. I am constantly predicting things that don’t come true.

I think about my husband dying and how I would possibly be able to raise these children by myself. I think about my children’s choices and imagine them on the street or behind bars or in my basement (supposing I have a basement). I think about waking up to my house on fire. I think about the economy failing. The government failing. The airplane failing. Myself failing.

I wake up in the middle of the night and think about how miserable I’ll feel the next day if I don’t get back to sleep. I think about about whether I will make the wrong decision, about whether I already did make the wrong decision, about whether I said the wrong thing or wrote the wrong thing or offended him or hurt her.

Contemplating these things isn’t necessarily a bad thing, if all I was doing was contemplating. A wise person thinks ahead, after all, and some introspection is good for the soul.

But I don’t just think about these things. I feel the emotion as if they are definitely going to happen, or are already happening. My mind and body react as if the terrible thing I imagine has already come true.

How many false predictions have I made to myself over my lifetime? Millions? Billions? How much adrenaline has been unnecessarily let loose in my body? How many hours of sleep have I lost just by worrying about how many hours of sleep I might lose? How much ibuprofen have I taken for headaches caused by catastrophic situations that never materialized?

I’m wrong 99% of the time, and yet pathetically, I still continue to make predictions. I play the lottery with my worries. Sure, it didn’t happen the last 5000 times, but it just might this time. I’m like the foolish person who shells out $3.99 a minute to have a psychic give another wrong glimpse into the future, just in case this time it’s right.

And what about that one percent? Those very, very few times when the worst does happen, what then?

Elyse Fitzpatrick wrote, “You know, the problem with fears that exist only in our imagination is that, since they aren’t real, we must face them alone. God’s grace isn’t available to help us overcome imaginary problems that reside only in our mind. He will help us to put these imagined fears to death, but it’s only in the real world that His power is effective to uphold us in trouble. It’s only when He calls us to go through difficult times that His power is present to protect, comfort, and strengthen us.” (Overcoming Fear, Worry, and Anxiety)

Oh yeah. There’s that.

Can any one of you by worrying add a single hour to your life? Your heavenly Father knows [what you need]. But seek first his kingdom and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well. Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.

~ Jesus

Those Who Suffer Are My Teachers

By Amy Medina

On May 1, 2019

In Other

I’ve always been ambivalent about Santa and the Easter Bunny.

I probably would feel that way anywhere we lived, but I especially would never be able to pull off those stories in Tanzania. I can’t bring myself tell my children that a magical old man or giant bunny is leaving them gifts when they see children every day who are living in poverty. How could I ever explain to them that Santa only leaves gifts for them, but not for their neighbors? How would I excuse the Easter bunny’s negligence of the little girl begging at our car window on the way to church?

I must hold my theology of God to the same standard.

Living as an American in a developing country has forced me to wrestle hard with what I believe. Am I believing an American gospel? Or the actual gospel?

Even though it’s easy for me to disdain the misuse of Jeremiah 29:11, how many times have I caught myself thinking, God would never let that terrible thing happen to me? How often have I needed to remind myself, God doesn’t owe me the American dream?

I’m embarrassed to admit the number of times I have wallowed in self-pity, asking God, Why me? Or how often have I realized that lurking around in the back of my mind is the notion that God just wants me to be happy?

Theology that can’t transcend culture, time, and experience isn’t Truth at all.

If what I believe is true, then it must be true for the Christians of Mozambique who lost everything in one cyclone–home, business, community–only to be hit by another a few weeks later. It’s got to be true for the Christian in Sri Lanka who simultaneously lost his wife and three children in a terrorist attack.

How dare I think that God owes me anything? I shouldn’t be asking Why me? but rather Why not me?

Of course, it’s not just those in developing countries who suffer. I think of Scott and Johanna Watkins, who discovered shortly after their marriage that Johanna had developed life-threatening allergies to just about everything, including Scott. Or Grace Utomo, who was an extraordinarily talented violinist when she was hit by a car at 23 years old. She now suffers from multiple seizures a day and can hardly ever leave the house.

Can I think about the lives of these suffering souls and believe that God just wants me to be happy? When I worry about the future, should I assure myself that God would never let that happen to me when he has already allowed much worse to happen to others who bear his name?

Ironically, the Bible speaks far more about oppression, injustice, and suffering than it does about happiness. Persecution is an expectation. We tend to forget that Paul wrote Rejoice in the Lord always while he was languishing in prison. There is no fear of contradiction between the gospel of Jesus and the reality of suffering. Which means that the problem lies in my own assumptions, not in the Bible.

I have learned to pay attention to those who suffer and yet remain steadfast in their faith. When my friend Lucy’s house was marked for demolition, she told me, “God gives and takes away. We will bless the name of the Lord, no matter what happens.”

Grace Utomo asks, Can I really call God ‘kind?’ and answers, “We would have no idea of how faithful and valuable God really is if we never knew loss in some capacity. We have souls that live forever, but our physical conditions are only temporary. Our job is to cling to eternity, and to the hope that we will enjoy God most fully at the end of our earthly life. Until then, we have the beautiful (albeit sometimes painful) opportunity to know God as a faithful refuge. If we look beyond the temporary, God is indeed kind.”

Scott Waktins writes, “Seeing upheavals so commonly in the scriptures reminds me that not only are Johanna and I in good company, but that it is serving a greater purpose. These difficult circumstances we are going through are not a cosmic accident. They are serving a purpose I don’t fully see, but one that I believe will lead to good. The upheaval of the past years has not upheaved my relationship with God. Instead, it has helped me deeply appreciate the upheaval of Jesus’ life and its lasting impact on the world.”

I am not worthy to stand in the presence of these suffering saints. They are my teachers. Theirs is the theology I seek.

I Really Just Want to Be Like God

By Amy Medina

On December 17, 2018

In Other

I was awake for hours last night, frustrated. I’m on Christmas break and shouldn’t be stressed or anxious.

But then it dawned on me–through the crazy busyness of this last school term, I hadn’t had time to process the other stress and anxiety in our lives right now. So now that school is done for a few weeks, my mind has a chance to go there.

I hate going there. It’s been easier to just focus on teacher observations and ACSI accreditation paperwork and our Christmas production and reports cards than think about the future. The uncertainty we’ve been facingfor the last six months has crystallized into an almost-certainty that our time in Tanzania is coming to an end. We’re pretty sure we can make it work for another year and a half, but that might be it.

A year and a half doesn’t feel very long at all when you’ve spent your entire adult life in a place–almost twenty years. If I allow myself to dwell on it, I am overwhelmed with grief at the thought of what we would be leaving. And when I think about what comes after that year and a half, all I see is a black hole. For someone who likes her life planned out at least five years in advance, that’s what keeps me awake at night.

If we have to leave Tanzania, what would be next? Would we go somewhere else in Africa or would we return to the States? And if so, where? We own no home anywhere; we have literally no possessions in America. The cities in California that feel most like home just happen to be some of the most expensive in the United States–not very promising for a family of six living on (likely) a ministry salary.

In a year and a half, we could be starting over completely from scratch. And that is so very daunting and scary. Especially considering that we’ll have one child starting high school and two others in middle school. Not exactly ideal ages for massive life upheaval.

Those kids. Oh, those kids. My kids who are Tanzanian by blood but raised by American parents in their homeland. We’ve already majorly messed with their identity; how would this transition affect them? How would we possibly decide what home, what school, what community would be best for them? Except, we probably won’t have the luxury of making decisions based on what is best for our kids. That is, if I even knew what would be best for them.

So at midnight last night, by the light of my Kindle, I read from Jen Wilkin’s None Like Him: 10 Ways God is Different from Us (And Why That’s a Good Thing). And I was reminded that the heart of my anxiety about my future is that I want to be like God.

I want to be omniscient, to know everything. I want to know what’s coming. I want to know the very best possible choices I could make for my kids. I want the reassurance that everything for them will turn out okay.

I want to be self-sufficient, to be able to assure myself that we will be able to handle this next stage of life without being a burden on anyone.

I want to be sovereign. I want to have complete control over what happens next, where we live, what we do. Wilkin writes, “We want our rule. We want our kingdom, our power, our glory. We want the very throne of God.”

I can pray, Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done, but really I want my kingdom, my will.

I really just want to be like God.

So there it is: Just as that ancient Deceiver whispered in the ear of Eve, so he murmurs the same temptations in my ear. You need to know. You need control. You need self-sufficiency.

When really, I need no such things. I don’t need to be like God; I just need God. He is enough. Jen Wilkin writes, “Our limits teach us the fear of the Lord. They are reminders that keep us from falsely believing that we can be like God. When I reach the limit of my strength, I worship the One whose strength never flags. When I reach the limit of my reason, I worship the One whose reason is beyond searching out.”

This morning I opened to Isaiah 50:10:

Let him who walks in darkness

and has no light

trust in the name of the Lord

and rely on his God.

The future may be a black hole, but there is always Light.

Mambo Sawa Sawa

By Amy Medina

On July 14, 2018

In Other

Mambo sawa sawa

Yesu akiwa enzini

Mambo sawa sawa

Everything is okay

When Jesus is on the throne,

Everything is okay.

My parents are here visiting, and one evening, my friend Alyssa asked my mom about the years my family lived in Liberia and Ethiopia, particularly the stories of how we left–because it was all pretty dramatic.

When I was 13, war descended on Liberia, destroying the place that was home. We were in the States when it happened, and for months we kept thinking, This will all blow over and we will go back. But it didn’t blow over for 15 years, and we lost our home and our stuff and our plans, which really was peanuts compared to the Liberians who lost limbs or children or sanity. We were then re-assigned to Ethiopia, only to have my brother and mom evacuated on the last plane out of Addis while my dad stayed behind and dodged bullets while the government was overthrown. (I was at boarding school a country away.)

I experienced these stories from a young teen’s perspective, and I heard them re-told many times as I grew older. But what struck me about them this time was my mom’s emphasis that both times in both countries, the missionaries didn’t believe the worst would really happen. Of course, the Liberians and the Ethiopians saw it coming. But the missionaries were overly optimistic. Surely God won’t bring war here! We’re doing his work; it’s all going great, surely he wouldn’t want it to end!

Trusting God? Or just naive? Either way, the bombs fell.

It seems to me like there’s something within my generation’s American Christian culture that assumes, God would never let that happen to me. Is it because of our optimism? Or entitlement? The sense that we really are in control of our lives?

There is a whole lot of uncertainty in my life right now. What I assumed was a neat and straightforward path for our family for the next couple of years is no longer so clear. We’ve been faced with this uncertainty for the past couple of months, but for a while I had a fair degree of confidence that it would all work out. Now, I’m not so sure.

There are no rumors of war in Tanzania, so that’s not what I am insinuating. But there are a number of circumstances we are facing that make our future feel….uncertain. Yet I find myself thinking: We’re doing God’s work; it’s all going great, surely he wouldn’t want it to end!

And I wonder if I’m trusting God…or just being naive.

Why is my world always shaken when uncertainty surfaces? After all, isn’t life always uncertain? When I think it’s not, aren’t I just deceiving myself? Why do I think, God would never let that happen to me! Because God does not owe me anything.

The worries settle themselves in my stomach and remind me, daily, that my life is uncertain. I beg God for a happy ending, for neat little bows wrapped up on the ends of those problems, but that is never promised to me. Maybe God will do the miraculous and that would be awesome. But what if he doesn’t? What if everything is not okay?

There has to be a type of trusting God that is not naive. Not an entitled trusting, because I can’t assume he will do things my way. But a settled trusting that comes from his character–that he is there, and he is good, and he has it under control.

Mambo sawa sawa

Yesu akiwa enzini

Because Jesus is on the throne, everything is okay.

When the Gate Fell

By Amy Medina

On June 2, 2018

In Other

It was Sunday afternoon, and we had gathered together for our monthly mission team meeting. The adults were talking on the second-floor balcony of our friends’ house, and the kids were running around in the yard below us.

In the background, we heard the gate slide open, and a car entered the property–a taxi ready to pick up some teammates. A few moments later, we heard the ghastly sound of metal crashing and children screaming.

I had a feeling run through me that is usually reserved for nightmares. We rushed downstairs.

Four kids–Josiah, Johnny, and two others–had been pushing the gate together. The force of all four of them pushing at the same time had made the heavy metal gate jump its runners and crash to the ground. The other kids managed to jump out of the way, but Josiah’s friend put up his arm to stop the gate, and it fell on top of him, breaking his arm.

Thankfully, the boy’s dad is a doctor, and he immediately took over and got his son to a hospital. He is okay now. Our kids were stunned and a bit traumatized, as each of them felt responsible that the gate fell. But everyone was okay.

Funny how something as serious as a broken arm suddenly becomes “only” a broken arm. It took six strong adults to pick up the gate and put it back on it’s runners. It was totally and completely an accident–nothing anyone could have predicted, and no one’s fault. We all looked at each other grimly as we contemplated the What If”s. What if it had fallen on a smaller child? What if it had landed on someone’s head? Everyone remembered a similar scenario a couple of years ago when a falling gate had killed the four-year-old sister of a HOPAC student.

Right before this happened, we had all been discussing some serious issues our organization is facing. We are getting advice, we are doing everything we can, and we are praying–but ultimately the outcome will be out of our hands. We think that by worrying we can somehow gain some control over a situation, but then something terrible happens that we never would have thought to worry about.

We are but microscopic organisms on the head of a pin in a vast universe. Are we subject to the whims of chaos, or is there an infinite God who is orchestrating billions of events every moment of every day, whether it be presidents or armies or the forces of gravity on a metal gate?

How we answer that question determines how then we shall live.