Never let me go

When I was little, I struggled with a lot of fears and anxieties. My mom and I have talked a good bit about it recently and tried to decide what exactly caused this; we still aren't totally sure. Thankfully, while I am still much more fearful than I should be, by God's grace in growing and teaching me my fears have become much less debilitating as I have grown older. (Except for my fear of spiders. Potential future roommates and life-mates take note: I will never, never, never be the one in the house who kills the spiders. Period.)

I can still remember quite vividly, though, the fears I had and the power they had over me. My memory of one particular fear is particularly poignant. I went through a period (my mom tells me it lasted several months) when I was afraid of falling asleep. It was one of my more bizarre fears, but it was very real, and I used to try to make my mom or my dad sit in my room with me from the time I went to bed until I fell asleep. My mom says I used to say I was afraid of the point when I became "unaware of myself"; I hated the idea of losing control of myself and of not having anyone around me to protect me if and when that moment occurred. Of course, my mom could not always sit in with me (and in fact, she should be sainted for how often she did), and so some nights I had to force myself to pass through that dark passageway into unconsciousness alone. On those nights, I remember I had a coping mechanism. I would wrap my blankets around me in a cocoon and imagine that someone was holding me, very tightly, as I fell asleep, and would watch over me even as I became more and more vulnerable to whatever it was that I feared could hurt me. Sometimes those arms belonged to God; sometimes to an angel; sometimes I didn't really know who they belonged to, and it didn't particularly matter to my little heart. It was enough to imagine that in that frightening moment when I fell out of my own control, I was held closely in someone else's.

This fear came back to me powerfully tonight for two reasons. One, I was at the house of some friends who have kids, and their sweet daughter was crying for fear of going to bed as they tried in vain to soothe her. Two, I was thinking about my future and my family's future in light of all that is changing--for better and for worse--and feeling increasingly panicky as the vital and life-changing details of the future seem so far out of my grasp. In short, I am in a place right now where I am losing control: my life, at least for the last several years, has remained relatively stable and predictable, and that is all changing quickly and in ways I cannot predict. It would be nice to think, even just for a moment, that I can somehow stem this tide of change and uncertainty, but in my heart I know that it is just as inevitable as sleep. It must come, eventually; some of it is healthy, although it is scary; but it cannot be put off forever, or even for long. And when I am faced with that uncertainty, that loss of control, I throw up my arms and think, "I just need someone to hold me through this; I need to know that when I have lost control someone else will still have it."

The truth is that there are many places I could turn for this, and many of them are good in part. Two of my friends tonight gave me hugs and ice cream when I was feeling particularly low; they held me through a moment of fear, and I am so grateful. But they, too, struggle with a lack of control; they can bear the burden with me, but they cannot promise me to stay awake through the scary night. They need to be held, too. I know that the answer is that I need to be told, over and over, that the sovereign God, who is also my gentle, loving Father, holds me through every night and day of my life, through the fearful times I know are coming and through the good and bad times that I cannot predict. This is all a very childish metaphor, and I feel a little embarrassed that anyone who reads it will find it either melodramatic or cheesy, but it is helping me as I wrestle with the sovereignty of God. Sometimes, his greatness and power over all seem intimidating and inaccessible to me; but when I find myself feeling most like the child that I am, the greatest comfort I can find is not an imaginary friend but a truly sovereign Father, who though the night may come and come on fast, will never let me go.