Fear. Not.

“No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear. 

I am not afraid, but the sensation is like being afraid. 

The same fluttering in the stomach, 

the same restlessness, the yawning. 

I keep on swallowing. 

At other times it feels like being mildly drunk, or concussed. There is a sort of invisible blanket between the world and me. I find it hard to take in what anyone says. 

Or perhaps, hard to want to take it in. 

It is so uninteresting. 

Yet I want the others to be about me. 

I dread the moments when the house is empty. 

If only they would talk to one another and not to me.” 

~ C.S. Lewis, A Grief Observed

Maybe that's part of it. Maybe it's the feeling of fear within grief, the frightening aloneness of great loss, trauma, suffering. The more I sift through these last few years, the more I realize how much I have been motivated by and influence by fear, not as a constant companion but as a subterranean haunting. Between the lines. Waiting.

Fear of being a failure
Fear of my marriage never getting better
Fear of my marriage crossing that invisible threshold of irreparability
Fear of my family falling apart
Fear of being unable to do anything about it
Fear of God's disapproval or being without His favor
Fear for my husband
Fear that I was no longer able to influence his choices
Fear that my words or actions being interpreted in ways I never intended
Fear of the example I was setting
Fear for my children, especially my older son
Fear for the future
Fear about finances
Fear about secrets, lies, hidden conversations, affairs
Fear of threats, and violence, and simmering rage
Fear in the midst of intense spiritual warfare
Fear of vulnerability, of weakness, of being unprotected, undefended
Fear of disappointing others
Fear of judgement
Fear that I do not matter, that I'm just not worth it
Fear of being "too much and yet not enough" (Stasi Eldredge)
Fear of loss of friends and family, people I cherished
Fear of abandonment, of being alone, of loneliness
Fear that it was all somehow my fault
Fear that no matter how much I tried, I would fail
Fear of my worst nightmares coming true

Fear that gripped me until my eyes bulged and made sleep impossible. Fear that wildly grew into panic. Out of proportion panic. Into such distress that I found myself unable to make a single decision fearful that it was the wrong one. That somehow I would make a grave mistake and that mistake would forever ruin everything. Enemy fear.

It was a fear that grew from the agony within my heart watching my husband refuse to husband, refuse to partner, refuse to father, refuse his whole role in our family altogether. Refuse me.

Maybe that fear has actually been grief. 

I found myself grasping for him, for security, for hope, for the safe place I expected to be there, for something indicating any kind of sureness or determination to get through this together. Sometimes in anger, sometimes in tears, sometimes in isolation. Gasping for air in the middle of circular arguments, untangleable troubles, and impossible inability to communicate. Trying desperately for a way to control the madness, to contain the trouble, to curb the discord until it would hopefully pass and be better someday, to make it be ok. Scratching at the this-is-supposed-to-work-out-ness willing it with all my mind to be so. And regularly flinging myself onto my bed to wail hot tears at God in frustration, heartbreak... and fear.

Grief.

Grief is a strange beast.

I have felt Lewis' disconnection. I have felt slightly drunk on a dizzying overwhelmedness. My whole brain and all my inside parts in disarray. On our anniversary I couldn't wrap my mind around the surreality. This can't be. No. What a bizarre, alien, inscrutable thing to not have any contact with my husband, this man I've loved so fiercely, on our anniversary. But, that's what happened. (One of my dearest friends babysat me even though she was just out of surgery herself. Such loving care is overwhelming.)

How did Christmas come and go without a word? The day was joyful by choice because it was about Emmanuel and not me and I'm glad for that. Yet by late afternoon I felt a creeping dread until 11:59 became 12:00. Couldn't time just slow down so my heart could catch up to the abject inanity of my family not all being together on Christmas Day? And my gut response was fear. A screeching STOOOOOOP! like the moment before impact. A heart-racing, breathless angst of ohpleaseohpleaseohpleaseGod NO!

But, slowly, very slowly the Lord has been reaching down into those frozen, fear-riddled, grieving, panicked places and soothing my soul. Shushing me and stroking my hair. Reminding me that He is bigger than fear, bigger than grief, bigger than any human circumstance. He is the Rescuer. The Champion. The Victor.

I have nothing to fear. 

Truthfully, it doesn't feel like that yet. There is no grand removal of the invisible blanket yet. No cure for the fluttering and yawning. There's no breakthrough to report. It's not healed.

So, I cling to God, thankful that He is with me even when I am shaking with uncertainty, when that subterranean beast breaks through. Sometimes there's nothing to do but to stand and press on trusting the Lord that His promises are true. 

That I do have nothing to fear.
That I am His.
That He does use all things ultimately for the good.
That He is my Protector.
That He sees, and He knows, and He comforts.
That He is here.
Right now.
Right in the middle of the fear. 
Right in the middle of the grief.

Because of Who He is... I will not fear.

"Fear not for I have redeemed you. 

I have summoned you by name; 

you are MINE! 

When you pass through the waters, 

I will be with you; 

and when you pass through the rivers, 

they will not sweep over you. 

When you walk through the fire, 

you will not be burned; 

the flames will not set you ablaze. 

For I am the Lord, your God, 

the Holy One of Israel, your Savior."

Isaiah 43.1-3

"So do not fear, for I am with you; 

do not be dismayed for I am your God. 

I will strengthen you and help you. 

I will uphold you with My righteous right hand."

Isaiah 41.10