Tag: Fear Page 5 of 7

Documented incidents include Christians being hung on a cross over a fire, crushed under a steamroller, herded off bridges and trampled under-foot.

I know so little of sacrifice.

A new report was recently published about the life of Christians in North Korea, and all of the incredibly creative ways that regime has invented to humiliate, torture, imprison, rape, and murder anyone who dares pick up a Bible.

But the scariest part of that report?

A policy of guilt by association applies, meaning that the relatives of Christians are also detained regardless of whether they share the Christian belief.

Did you get that?

The cost of following Jesus in North Korea is not just your job, not just your well-being, not just your freedom….but your whole family. Your mom, your brother, your children can be put in a prison camp, raped, or run over by a steamroller because you chose Jesus.

It’s incomprehensible. Unfathomable.

I know so little of sacrifice.

Sure, I can tell myself that I have chosen to live in a country with medical care that is vastly inferior than we would have in America. Sometimes it is scaryto raise kids here. But I also am still American, with my full-coverage medical insurance that allows my children to be medically evacuated if it ever comes to that. Sure, I worry, but I know the risk is low.

Besides….God would never ask me to sacrifice my kids….right?

Yet I worship the same God who has asked exactly that of the North Korean Christians. I stand under the same sky, breathe the same air, and have the same kind of soul as they do. Who am I to think that he wouldn’t ask the same of me?

In America right now, the sentiment seems to be exactly the opposite. We sacrifice for our kids, but we wouldn’t think of sacrificing them. We start college accounts when they are babies. We go to every soccer game; we work two jobs to send them to private school; our lives revolve around their extracurricular activities. I get this. I feel this, even from here. I want the best for my kids too.

But what if our kids’ activities become so important that we have no time for ministry? No time to get to know our neighbors? No time even for church? What if God called my children to be missionaries…in Congo…in Iraq…in North Korea? What if I was convicted that the college money would be better spent showing a dying neighbor that Jesus loves him? Would I resist….or obey?

I realize it’s a hard balance. I’m not saying we go back to the old days when fathers would leave their families for years at a time in the name of ministry. I know of missionaries who waited to work in highly dangerous countries until their children were grown. I have supported many missionary friends who left Tanzania due to the needs of their children. It goes without saying that Christians are to put a high priority on ensuring their children are safe, educated, and loved.

Yet when do we hit the point where we love our children more than Jesus? Where we tell him, You can have anything, Lord, just not my kids?

I really don’t know where that line is. It might not be the same for each person and it might not be the same in each situation. But judging from the example of my North Korean brothers and sisters, I must come to the conclusion that God does sometimes ask us to sacrifice our children for the sake of the gospel.

After all, the greatest treasure in the universe came from the sacrifice of a Son.

My Deepest Fear

By Amy Medina

On August 29, 2016

In Other

When I was about 15 years old and living in California, one warm evening I was baby-sitting a couple of little boys. I was watching them play outside, and they climbed into the bed of the pick-up truck that was sitting in the driveway. I remember that this made me nervous, as the boys were only about two and four years old, but they assured me that they were allowed to play there. So I went against my better judgment and let them jump around.

I was watching them carefully, but before I could stop it, the toddler slipped off the ledge and fell. Onto his head. Onto the concrete driveway.

He instantly started screaming. I brought them into the house in a panic. I did everything I could think of to calm the screaming boy, but nothing worked. He screamed for a long time. I can’t remember how long, but it was until his parents came home at least an hour or two later.

I told them he had fallen, but I did not tell them that he had fallen out of the truck. I was overwhelmed by a terrible sense of horror that this had been my fault, that I shouldn’t have let him play there and I should have been watching him more carefully. I never told my parents, and I never told his parents what really happened. I was terrified of being deemed irresponsible.

As far as I know, the child was perfectly fine. But the scenario has haunted me since then, especially once I learned more about concussions and brain injuries and what could have happened that day. I realize now that my irresponsibility was less about letting him play in the truck, and more in my lack of calling for help.

A few years ago, while living in Tanzania, a young boy stayed with us for a couple of weeks while his parents were traveling. One night, the power went off, and since he was afraid of the dark, I lit two candles. I put one on the desk in the guest room, and one one the washing machine in the bathroom, in case he needed to use it. The candles were in plastic bowls.

The power came back on an hour or so later, and the boy blew out the candle in his room. But the candle in the bathroom continued to burn, and in the middle of the night, we were awakened by the boy’s cries. When I opened our bedroom door, the hallway was full of smoke. The candle had burned through the plastic bowl, caught the plastic lid of our washing machine on fire, and had continued to melt through all the plastic parts of the machine.

We were able to put the fire out easily, but the smoke was incredibly thick. To this day, I am haunted by the what ifs. What if the boy hadn’t blown out the candle in his room? What if the smoke had made him unconscious….or worse? And what on earth was I thinking in putting a candle in a plastic bowl?

Marianne Williamson famously wrote, “Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us.”

I know this quote has been the climax of many inspiring movies, but I just can’t agree. I do agree that I am afraid of my power. But not in a good way. My deepest fear is the devastation I am capable of.

It’s not just my darkness–that creature within me that must be tamed–that I fear. It’s my frailty, my weakness, my humanness that terrifies me the most. The lapse in judgment that kept me from telling the truth to the toddler’s parents. The pure foolishness of putting a candle in a plastic bowl.

Like everyone, I suppose, I am afraid of what could happen to those I love. I have occasional anxiety about natural disasters or terrorist attacks. I am mildly OCD and triple-check the door locks at night. I am afraid because I know I cannot control my world. But what do I fear the most? That something terrible will happen, and it will be my fault. I cannot control myself.

I grew up as part of the self-esteem generation, which is why it is supposed to be our “light” that most frightens us. We were told that our top priority should be finding our identity, following our hearts, and reaching our dreams. The problem is that along with discovering our power for success comes the discovery of our capacity for failure. Serious failure. Because no matter how many times you tell me otherwise, there are times I will always be inadequate. Sure, I might do some pretty good stuff in my lifetime. But I will make the wrong decision sometimes, and other times I will make terrible decisions.

I can’t fix that. And so I am afraid.

So what’s the antidote? Looking in the mirror and trying to convince myself that I am smart, capable, and powerful is just not going to work. Or even the Christian version of self-esteem talk–I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me–falls flat.

The only way I can defeat my fear is to take the “I” out of the sentence all together. Why does it matter what Amy Medina is capable of–either good or bad? What matters is what God is capable of. He is all-knowing and all-powerful. He is good and can do anything He wants to do. He is the one who is in control of this universe. And even when I do something evil or just plain stupid, He is sovereign over that too.

“Does failure on our part to act prudently frustrate the sovereign plan of God? The Scriptures never indicate that God is frustrated to any degree by our failure to act as we should. In His infinite wisdom, God’s sovereign plan includes our failures and even our sin.” (Jerry Bridges, Trusting God)

It is there–and only there–that I am no longer afraid. The longer I look at myself, the harder I try to convince myself that I’ve really got my life under control, the more afraid I am. The more that I just stop thinking about myself all together, and focus on the One who created me, that’s where everything clicks into place.

Which is why I must continually lift up my eyes. Fear makes me focus inward, and ultimately that will only breed more fear. There’s not much in myself that can alleviate my anxiety. What I need is to look up. To look out. God gave us this mind-blowingly massive universe so that we can comprehend our smallness. The vastness of the ocean, the intricacy of a flower, the realization that something far, far bigger than us is going on. Who am I to think that I have the power to thwart God’s plan? I can rest in the knowledge that God is a trillion times stronger than me.

There is a profound comfort in understanding my insignificance in the universe, and yet my significance in God’s sight. It is there that my fear dissolves.

If We Perish, We Perish. But Let’s Choose Love Over Fear.

By Amy Medina

On November 18, 2015

In Other

*Note added 11/20/15: Please be assured that my intentions were not to make a political statement as to what the U.S. government should do about the refugee crisis. I only want Christians to think about our reaction to the “dangerous” people and places in our society that we often try to avoid.

A couple years ago, the U.S. postal service came out with a series of stamps showing children in active activities. They never went to print. Why, you ask? Because many of the children on the stamps were participating in “dangerous activities.” Look carefully: No helmets, no knee pads, and [gasp!] one child is even doing a cannonball.

We are a culture that is obsessed with safety.

Is the house I am buying in a safe neighborhood?

Is my child’s school safe?

Are vaccines safe? Pesticides?

Will less guns make us safe? Or more guns?

Prayer meetings are often dominated by requests for safety in traveling. We spend hours researching the safest car seat, baby monitor, and crib. We always buckle. These aren’t necessarily bad things.

Until this obsession gets into the way of obeying God.

What happens when God breaks your heart for the low-income neighborhood in your city?

What about when your firstborn child is called to be a missionary in Iraq? Or Afghanistan? Or North Korea?

What about when that unseemly neighbor wants her kids to come over and play?

Or how about something as simple as finding out that 10,000 Syrian refugees are being sent to your city?

It’s ironic that two months ago, when a drowned toddler was the Face of the Refugee, there was only criticism for those countries who didn’t open their arms wide. Now, when the Face of the Refugee is a terrorist, those same doors are slamming shut.

I don’t want to make a political statement here. I realize that the refugee situation is complicated and not easy to solve. However, I do want to make a Christian statement.

When our love of safety gets in the way of obeying God, we are wrong.

When our love of safety gets in the way of loving people, we are wrong.

When we see the dysfunctional neighbor, the unruly child, the refugee, the Muslim, we should see the face of Jesus. When we see the low-income neighborhood, the Arab country, the dilapidated house down the street, we should see places to which Jesus would have run.

Yes, we should be safe when we can be. But as Christians, for the sake of love, we should err on the side of risk.

Who knows but that you have come to your royal position for such a time as this?

To cross the railroad tracks.

To open our homes to the international college student.

To welcome the foster child.

To befriend the woman behind the veil.

To give generously.

To love lavishly.

And be willing to say with Queen Esther,

If I perish, I perish.

Who Do I Make the Effort to Notice? What Paris Should Teach Us

By Amy Medina

On November 15, 2015

In Other

At least 1000 civilians were killed, 1,300 women and girls raped, and 1,600 women and girls abducted between April and September.

A pregnant wife is murdered in her home during a home invasion.

A 62-year-old woman is murdered in her home by her boyfriend.

147 college students are murdered by terrorists.

41 people are murdered by terrorists.

129 people are murdered by terrorists.

Why are some more identifiable than others? Why do you immediately know what person or place I am referring to with some, and not the others?

Is it because of media bias?

The area of the world where it took place?

Race?

Because some places are just dangerous and so we expect bad things to happen, but others are more newsworthy because they are considered “safe?”

Is it because we can all identify Paris on a map, but not Lebanon, South Sudan, or Kenya? Is it because we can imagine ourselves hiding from terrorists in a concert hall, but not in a South Sudanese swamp? Is it because we see ourselves as the murdered pastor’s wife, but not the black girlfriend in Lancaster, California?

Probably. And that’s not necessarily bad. We mourn more deeply when the tragedy happens closer to us. We become more frightened when we can picture it also happening to us. The attack on Garissa, Kenya affected me more than the attack on Paris, France, because Kenya is right next door to me. The attack on Westgate Mall in Nairobi terrified me more than the attack on Beirut, Lebanon because I have been to that mall myself. So it wouldn’t be fair for me to be angry with you for caring more about Paris than Garissa just because it touches you more closely.

But…. In spite of all the (probably) unfair accusations of racism or prejudice that are being thrown around, times like these are great for soul-searching. Let us not lose the opportunity to grow.

Do we allow only the media to tell us what to pray for? Do we take the time to look for the people and places who might not be getting the same attention? I have been convicted to look harder for the ignored stories. Jesus sought out the prostitute, the tax collector, the child. Even a sparrow does not fall to the ground without his notice. Who do I make the effort to notice?

Support and prayers pour in for wife of Indiana pastor whose pregnant wife was murdered. No problem with that. Pray for this family. But let that grief remind you that many others are murdered, even in America, with no one noticing. Has anyone looked up the family of the man in Lancaster who just yesterday shot his girlfriend and then himself? Think they could use some support and prayers?

Pray for Paris. But let Paris remind you to pray for Kenya, and Lebanon, and Syria, and South Sudan. The grief and the terror we feel when we watch the reports of Paris should give us a lot more empathy with the millions of people who live with the threat of terrorism every day.

Perhaps this article says it best: “Westerners are finally being given just a small taste of the constant fear that people from other nations have endured for generations. So solidarity with, and compassion for, the French is a good thing.”

And in the meantime, let us not despair, for we serve the God who sees all, and loved us enough to not just watch from a distance.

When the Horror Story Doesn’t Happen

By Amy Medina

On October 17, 2015

In Other

I’m sure you’ve all heard adoption horror stories. You know a cousin’s friend’s sister who brought home a child who made everyone’s lives a living hell.

The stories can be true, and they scare a lot of people away from adoption.

But today, I want to counter those stories with one that is just the opposite. This is my boy Johnny, who came home just two months ago, and two months shy of his fourth birthday.

Johnny sleeps in his own bed, in the room that he shares with his brother. He sleeps 11 hours every night and doesn’t wake up until morning.

Johnny has an incredible attention span. He can sit on the floor, by himself, with a 50 piece puzzle, and put it together and take it apart 5 times before he needs something else to do. He can sit quietly in church or during his siblings’ school productions.

Johnny is hysterically funny. He dances. He wiggles his hips. He loves being chased. He loves being tickled. He is Mr. Enthusiastic. When I tell him dinner is ready, you would think he had won the lottery. When he sees a car come into the driveway, he shouts, “Friends! Friends are here!” as if it was the president himself. When he burps, hiccups, or passes gas, he giggles and says, “I’m grumpy!” which has now officially become a part of our family’s vocabulary. When I am gone for 5 hours or 5 minutes, he runs to me and declares, “I missed you!”

Our older kids adore him. He plays well with them, but he also plays well by himself. He eats everything on his plate. He rarely whines. He rarely gets angry. Sure, he is not perfect. When the kid wants to be stubborn, he can be stubborn. But that’s happening less and less as he gets to know us and we get to know him.

If you’ve read this blog for any length of time, you know I don’t sugarcoat things. I try to tell it as it is, while still trying to keep my kids’ privacy. So let me assure you that I’m not exaggerating. Johnny fit into our family like one of those puzzle pieces he loves to put together. It’s only been two months, but it’s like he’s always been here.

Sure, the first few weeks were tough. But I have been blown away by how quickly he has settled in, especially considering his history. He has adapted much faster, actually, than some of our other children who came home much younger than he did.

Older child adoption can be tricky, and if you are considering it, you’ve got to keep your eyes wide open and prepare yourself for the worst. But it also could be the best thing that’s ever happened to your family. Because that’s how Johnny feels to all of us.

We celebrated Johnny’s fourth birthday yesterday. It’s pretty special to celebrate with a kid who has never had a birthday party of his own, and never opened a present he could keep.

Personally, I think Johnny’s pretty happy being a son. And we’re pretty happy to make him one.

Johnny’s new bike was definitely a highlight of his day!

Celebrating at Water World

Johnny and his buddy Danny. Danny and Johnny are almost the same age, and Danny was adopted from Forever Angels just three months before Johnny. Danny’s mom and I are friends, so we were really excited when we realized that the boys definitely remember each other, and are so happy any time they are together.