courage

One Hurdle at a Time

One Hurdle at a Time
Photo by Andrew McElroy on Unsplash

 

Publishing a book is a daunting process.

It’s a little like running hurdles. You keep running the race, and then along the way, there are tasks that ask more of you. Each hurdle requires a measure of courage, grit, and humility. Any one of them has the potential for failure or rejection.

It seems the further we go in any endeavor, the more hurdles we face. The challenges get greater. They ask more of us than we may think we can offer.

While it can be exhilarating to pass one and realized, “I made it!” the journey itself can be tiring and anxiety-producing.

I had one of those hurdles earlier in the process. My marketing director (how did I get a marketing director?) called to talk about my launch team. Big hurdle.

So I prayed. A lot. I prayed that I wouldn’t feel overwhelmed. I prayed I wouldn’t feel behind. Walking into that phone call I knew I needed to remember Whose I am and how much He is with me and for me, no matter what.

And I wasn’t alone. I asked others to pray for me too. They too prayed that God would give me what I needed to jump that next hurdle.

And you know what? It wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be, thanks to God and others. I felt their strength and encouragement (and it helps that my marketing director is a great person who is for me).

Crossing Each Hurdle

When the temptation to be overwhelmed arises, I have to stop and do a little soul work. I acknowledge the lies that are creeping in-that I have to prove myself, that people are watching and waiting for me to mess up, that I am alone in this.

Then I feed my soul the truth of who I am, and remind myself that this is for His glory, not mine. I look at my day and say, “God, what do you have for me to do today? Will you give me what I need to do it?”

I think this is what Jesus meant when he talked about daily bread. And not worrying about tomorrow. Casting all your cares. Taking up your cross daily and following Him. That the truth will set us free. This is where the rubber meets the road.

While it’s tempting to look ahead and see the whole race, I’m reminded that He gives us just enough for today. For this hurdle. This thing that feels like it’s more than we can do, He walks with us. He strengthens.

A New Year of Hurdles

As we venture into this new year, there will be hurdles. There will be things that ask more of us than we think we have. More of us than we do have.

Thank God we don’t have to do it alone. May this be a year of daily, peace-filled dependence on the One who gives us manna. May we stay close enough that we feel His breath, close enough that help is never far away. He speaks truth to our inmost parts, giving us what we need to do what He’s called us to do.

 

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Vulnerability on Display

Vulnerability on Display
Photo by Raquel Chavez on Unsplash

 

A common response I get after a public speaking engagement is, “I so appreciate your vulnerability when you speak.”

I don’t want to contradict them at the moment, so I don’t, but the truth is, I’m generally not vulnerable when I speak.

I’m transparent.

There’s a big difference.

For a long time, I thought I was being vulnerable by sharing personal stories, particularly stories of things I’ve struggled with, in front of others.

But I generally share in the past tense. Like, “here’s something I used to struggle with” or “let me tell you about a time I failed and how God used it.”

That’s not vulnerability. It’s transparency.

Vulnerability vs Transparency

Here’s the difference:

As my friend Iris puts it well, transparency is putting your junk in a window on display for others to see. Yes, it might be awkward, but you get to choose what they see and what they don’t.

You can choose that which has healed over, or is healing over. You can choose that which no longer evokes shame (if it ever did). What others see is completely within your control.

Vulnerability is inviting people into the back room to see what’s still tender. Back there lie the things that do trigger shame. The wounds that are still open. That which you may fear bringing into the light. Sometimes things you don’t even realize are there.

Transparency is letting people see the scars. Vulnerability is letting people close enough that they might touch the wounds. Share on X

Being transparent is good-we need people to see how we are growing, how we have grown. It invites them to do the same. When God brings us through something difficult and we share it with others, it ministers to them.

Not everyone has earned the right to come into the back room to see what is deepest in us. We aren’t meant to show all that to the world. So no, I’m not particularly vulnerable when I speak, by intention. Vulnerability is meant for safe spaces and safe people.

Choosing Vulnerability and Transparency

But that doesn’t mean we get a pass on sharing vulnerably with others. We’re all called to go beyond transparency with some people, or at least someone. We need God’s wisdom and guidance (and a good bit of courage) to know who our safe people are. And when we figure out who they are, we need to bravely invite them into those back room places.

Chances are, some of the stories that we are transparent about now were once things that felt very vulnerable. Because we shared them with safe people first, they can be brought to a place where we share them with others. Healing has happened. The more we choose vulnerability, the more we are able to be transparent about the wounds that have healed.

There’s a place for transparency. And there’s a place for vulnerability. Not everyone has earned the right to see all of us, but everyone needs to see some of it.

 

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How Looking Back Helps Us Go Forward

How Looking Back Helps Us Go Forward
Photo by Luke Porter on Unsplash

A few summers ago, our family spent several weeks in Colorado. Naturally, we hiked. Our kids were not fans. It was, “Too hard, not fun, too hot, not enough snacks,” you name it. We trained our kids not to say, “I can’t do this,” but rather, “I currently struggle with . . .” challenging things. At one point, our daughter commented, “I currently struggle with this mountain.”

Mountain climbing isn’t easy, but I’ve learned one thing that helps me keep going: stopping once in a while and looking back.

When we look back, we see that yes, we actually are making progress. The top is closer. The view is getting better. Just that look back can encourage us to keep pressing on.

As we enter a new year, we do not know what the future holds.

It could be that you are excited about the possibilities. But maybe you’re heading into a new season that is uncertain. Prayers you started last January may sit still unanswered. The path forward might be a tough road. It’s easy to say, “I currently struggle with this,” and want to give up.

So before we move forward, we need to look back.

Recently, I did this with my ministry team at work. On a retreat, we reflected on Joshua 4, when the Israelites crossed the Jordan. After they did, God admonished them to take stones from the river and pile them up in remembrance of what He had done, so that future generations could see His faithfulness.

In the absence of stones, we found a piece of driftwood from the Intracoastal. On one side, we wrote, “we remember . . .” We each took turns writing something God did for us this past year, some way He showed His faithfulness. It was good to reflect on how He has worked good in our lives.

On the other side, we wrote, “therefore we hope . . .”

Therefore. It’s an important word. We hope because we have seen. Looking back, we remind ourselves how far He has brought us. We see that He has been our faithful companion along the path. It is His strength and wisdom that have brought us to this place. He will guide us the rest of the way.

It’s in looking back at His faithfulness that we can move confidently with hope into the future.

When the future looks foggy, look back. When we do, we gain vision for what is ahead. We record the evidence of His faithfulness to chart our way for the future. There will be stones of remembrance to gather when we stop again further down the path. He has loved us too much to stop now. The One who brought us this far will continue on the journey.

Look back so you can keep going forward.

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The Secret to Persevering in the Arena

Developing a Stronger Theology for the Arena
Photo by Jason Briscoe on Unsplash

Recently I had a week of awkward engagements, mostly in the form of writing emails telling people what they don’t want to hear, or pushing into uncomfortable topics with others.

Yuck. I thought, “Is there a hole I can go crawl into now?” But each of those interactions was necessary because of the tough arenas of life God has called me into for this season.

Brene Brown, in her book Rising Strong, says, “an arena is any moment when or place where we have risked showing up and being seen.”

Inspired by the Teddy Roosevelt 1910 speech (below), those arenas are places of blood, sweat, and tears, where we fight for what we believe in. We hope for victory, but know that failing is always a possibility.

This is a “venture into tough new arenas” year for me. They ask more of me than I want to give sometimes. These arenas call me to risk, lead, take stands, and put myself out there.

Can I be honest? Making a difference, affecting change, living bravely, all sounds great in theory. But it’s tiring.

A lot of the time, I want to quit. Stop writing. Step away from leading. Let things go rather than fight for a stance. Comfort is more appealing than potential failure, regardless of what I or others might gain.

It’s hard to put yourself out there when there’s a risk of falling on your face. So much more appealing to stay on those safe shores. And yet, we must keep fighting.

When I am tempted to step out of the arena, wipe the blood, sweat, and tears off my face, and throw in the towel, I feel a check in my spirit. A voice says,

“Stay. Stay and fight. You don’t need to stop. You just need more truth for this.”

We don’t need to quit.

We just need to get stronger. And where does that strength come from? It comes from the truth. Here’s the secret to not quitting when life is tough:

We need a stronger theology for the arena.

What does that look like? To begin with, it means more strength training out of the ring.

We train our minds with the truth; that this is for His glory, not our ours; that there is no failure so great to put us out of His reach; that every second in the ring is only possible because of His power, not our own; that a knockdown does not define our worth.

The more we are called to the arena, the more we need to feed our minds and hearts the truth about who He is and who we are. Then, when we are tempted to quit, instead we choose to double down on those truths.

Second, we need to train our hearts to hear our coach’s voice, even in the thick of the fight. He is with us, for us, in us. No one is more for us in the arena than He is.

We can’t always step out of the ring, so we must learn the moment by moment Yahweh breathing to slow our hearts and call us back to depend on His voice.

Staying in the arena means growing the humility to admit when we need a minute in the corner to catch our breath. We take time in the corner to get toweled off and refreshed by His Presence, His Spirit, His words. The longer we’re there, the harder it is, but there’s always a place of rest.

It’s hard to win without anyone in your corner. We need cheerleaders, people who know why we’re in there and believe in what we’re doing. Those are the people who will shout at us to get back up when we fall.

And we need to remember why we stepped into the arena in the first place. If this is God’s call, He gives us what we need to fight.

He never promised easy. Nor did He promise victory in every battle. But if we strengthen our theology, we can stay in it until it’s finished, no matter how many times we fall.

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Looking Scary (When We’re Scared)

Looking Scary (When We're Scared)
Photo by Stock Photography on Unsplash

Do you know someone who is scary? You know, the kind of person who takes up a lot of space in the room. They’re intimidating. Their voices are loud. Words are strong.

Sometimes it’s the person you would least expect. It seems out of character. They aren’t like that in every day life, but something gets triggered and they suddenly look scary. What happened?

I wonder if it’s because they’re scared.

When we get scared, our behavior changes. Some of us hide, shrink back, disappear. But many of us get louder, stronger, and more controlling. We get big because we feel small.

I know I do it. It’s my way of covering what I fear.

It’s like the Wizard of Oz, crying, “Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain!” You know, the one furiously attempting to make himself look bigger than he is. The one projecting a scary image while in reality he is cowering where you can’t see him. Maybe then no one will notice that he doesn’t know what he’s doing. He doesn’t have what it takes. He’s scared out of his wits. Fear keeps him hidden, afraid to lose the relationship, his reputation, a sense of control.

Scary might make us feel protected, but it actually isolates us. It keeps others from seeing what is going on inside, and blocks the doorway for them to help us address what we fear. Scary keeps us scared.

What’s our invitation instead?

It helps me to remember anger is a secondary emotion. Like I said, we get big when we don’t want to feel small. Anger makes us feel bigger than the fear. When we recognize a rage that’s driving us to look scary, it’s a good signal to stop and examine our hearts. What are we afraid of? What feels threatened? When we own what it is that makes us scared, we can confront it, instead of pretending than we are bigger or stronger than we are.

Often we can’t overcome that fear on our own. We need others to step in and walk with us.

So we need to set down the scary mask and invite others in. Pull back the curtain and admit what is true. “I don’t know what to do. This is overwhelming. I feel weak, exposed, needy. I’m afraid of what’s happening here.”

The irony of the Wizard is that when he pulls back the curtain, he can offer so much more. Intimacy increases as he steps out from behind the scary image. Solutions are found. Relationships strengthen. Fear dissipates. We don’t have to be scary.

“For the Spirit God gave us does not make us timid, but gives us power, love and self-discipline.”

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Open the Door to Others

Open the Door to Others
Photo by Philipp Berndt on Unsplash

“To open yourself to another person, to stop lying about your loneliness and your fears, to be honest about your affections, and to tell others how much they mean to you-this openness is the triumph of the child of God over the Pharisee and a sign of the dynamic presence of the Spirit.” (Brennan Manning, Abba’s Child).

We lie about our loneliness and our fears.

They are hidden beneath smiles, activity, and bravado. We ignore aches and push down anxieties because we believe the people who present themselves to others without these trappings are more acceptable, desirable, and welcome.

And that’s how the loneliness and fears grow. They lie to us about our worth. Their grip on us tightens and reinforces our distance from those who would really know our hearts.

Those lies battle with the truth that we need others, and the truth that real strength lies not in hiding, but in vulnerability. Life is not found behind closed doors.

In an unguarded moment not long ago, I moved toward a friend. I clung to a glimmer of hope that maybe I wasn’t alone; maybe she felt it too. We began a hesitant companionship, marked with vulnerability hangovers from fear we overshared. Several times one or the other of us nearly canceled a lunch date because the thought of baring ourselves felt too heavy. But slowly, we pushed past our fears toward each other.

After a while, we thought maybe we weren’t alone. Maybe other women wanted, needed, a place to be raw, real, seen, and heard too. So we invited a few. And they came.

Four of us are on a journey of opening to each other. Between work and travel and family, we carve out times together where we simply ask, “how are you?” and make space for more than rote answers.

We have, each of us, wondered if we fit in with the others.

As we open doors into deeper recesses of our hearts, we navigate fear.

We brave disappointing one another with our honest selves.

Together, we invite each other’s childlike selves to show up, share wounds that need care, and receive the tenderness and empathy we need. We share where our hearts are in the process of being awkwardly awake and alive to the mess of life, parenting, friendship, and ministry.

One week, a flurry of text messages appeared about getting together. I chimed in that I couldn’t come, and received no response. With a sinking feeling in my gut, I watched as they excitedly planned time without me.

The loneliness and fear called back to me, telling me how foolish it was to believe I could leave them behind. They whispered of my lack. Told me I was dispensable. Noted how quickly I was passed over.

When our group sat down in our booth at Panera the next week, I swallowed hard and spoke my lies. These friends listened, understood, and opened the door for me to reclaim my space with them.

The triumph of the child over the Pharisee often feels less like victory and more like heart thumping hope as we bring our true selves to each other, vulnerable and exposed.

I need these women, and they need me. While the enemy conspires with a thousand little lies to keep us from being open with others, the Spirit whispers to us that it is worth it, this baring of our souls.

He bids us come with our childlike selves, and believe there is a place for us.

Needing others is not weakness. It is not something to be despised or masked, but rather something to be embraced and celebrated.

There is a place for each of us. Open the door.

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Soldier On, Friends

Soldier On, Friends
Photo by Olia Gozha on Unsplash

There is a constant battle waging for our souls, and I for one sometimes grow weary of fighting it.

There are days I battle discouragement, pessimism, lies, apathy. It would be the easiest thing to let them sideline me.

I know there’s truth that cuts down all those negative emotions, but it takes energy to fight my way back to it. It takes time, and intentionality, and faith.

It’s a tiring battle. Every day we have to take up our cross and follow.

We have to start again, knowing that there will be arrows of accusation and condemnation from the enemy. There will be lies we’re tempted to believe about ourselves and others. Every day we have to fight our way back to the truth. We have to remember who we are and whose we are.

And friends, it’s tough.

The Battle Is Tough

It’s easier to lay down our weapons and surrender.

We wallow in complaining and negativity rather than take up gratitude, especially when it’s hard to find the gold.

Holing up with Netflix and ice cream hoping the battle will cease is the path of least resistance. Easier than the hard work of dragging those lies into the light.

Staying in isolation is easier than inviting others to speak truth into our darkness.

I’m reminded of one of my favorite books, Hind’s Feet on High Places. In it, the protagonist, Much Afraid, is called to the High Places by the Good Shepherd. What she hoped would be a joyous journey with Him is marred by her relatives with names like Resentment, Bitterness, and Pride, who constantly call to her along the way. They cause her to doubt and fear and wonder if she hasn’t chosen the wrong path.

She learns to cover her ears and turn away from their voices. She holds doggedly to the promises the Good Shepherd has made to her, however much they might not feel true at the moment.

So do we.

Keep Fighting the Battle

I want to tattoo all His promises across my arms so they sink into my soul and take up permanent residence there.

If only I were not such a leaky vessel when it comes to the truth about Him and me.

Would that I never find myself in those places where I realize I have listened to the wrong voices and strayed away from that solid ground in Him.

I wish fighting was not part of the Christian life, but it is. We are meant to fight hard against the enemy, and we are meant to be victorious.

Are you fighting the good fight? [ictt-tweet-inline]Fighting is hard and tiring but it’s worth it.[/ictt-tweet-inline]

There is truth to be claimed.

Joy that is ours for the taking.

Peace offered to us.

Solid ground on which to rest.

There is victory to be had.

Yes, there is much that will threaten to knock us off that rock of truth, but there is One who wants to hold us there. He is greater than our enemy. He gives us what we need for the battle.

So soldier on, friends.

Take every thought captive. Fight hard for what is yours. Cling to the truth that combats the lies you’re tempted to believe. Lift your eyes to the hills. Listen to your commander’s voice. Press on to take hold of that for which He took hold of you.

We don’t get to claim truth once and stay there. We fight to keep claiming the ground that’s ours. The more we do, the more we win.

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Moana and the Power of Grit

Moana and the Power of Grit
Photo by Amanda Phung on Unsplash

 

If there’s one thing I hope to say about myself by the end of this year, it’s this: I’m grittier than I was.

When I say grit, I’m talking about courage and resolve, showing up and staying in it for the long haul, doing the hard things that get you places you thought you couldn’t go.

I’ve learned, in the last year, that I am not a naturally gritty person. I like safety and comfort. I like staying in known places where I’m doing well.

The problem is, not much happens in those safe, comfortable places.

You know who has grit? Moana. I’m in love with this character from Disney because she is a great picture of the rewards of being gritty.

Moana lives on an island, where she is destined to be the next leader. Their island is slowing dying, food is scarce. The people are getting desperate.

Moana suggests they go beyond the reef to look for more fish, but her father tells her, “There’s nothing beyond our reef but storms and rough seas. As long as we stay on our very safe island, we’ll be fine.”  He tried to go beyond the reef before and found nothing but heartache and an unforgiving ocean.

Moana tries to stay as her father asks, but the desire to save her people, and the call on her life to be the one to help them compels her to go.

Throughout the movie, we see her waver between doubt and courage, resolve and giving up. In the end, (spoiler alert) her perseverance pays off.

We all have a safe island where we could stay.

And we all have ways God is calling us to live out who we are, asking us to venture into new waters. He calls us to places that test our resolve, places of potential failure, but also great reward.

For me, writing has been that call onto the water. It’s been a challenging and anxiety-ridden ride at times, full of temptation to compare myself to others, wonder if I have what it takes, and be discouraged.

I have tried to be courageous and put myself out there, but often I have wanted to give up and walk away, back to my safe island. To be honest, I feel that right now, today, as I write this.

When we attempt to do something that calls us beyond our comfort zone, it’s tough. We get tired. There’s heartache and failure. Sometimes it feels like the world is against us. Our dreams seem just out of reach. We doubt it’s worth it.

The question is, “Will we keep going?”

It takes grit. Leaving the island takes grit. Staying the course takes grit.

But what’s the alternative? If we stay, our worlds get smaller, until we are stuck on our islands. We are safe, but we aren’t living. Comfortable, but accomplishing little. We miss the call.

So what does it take for us to leave the island, to stay gritty?

In my experience, it’s a combination of being desperate enough to leave where we are, and a clear vision of where we want to be.

It’s the conviction that where we are is not where we want to be in the end, and where we would like to land is worth the risk and the effort. That’s where we stay laser-focused whenever we are ready to throw in the towel.

It’s also the conviction that this is what God has asked us to do. And if He has asked us to do it, He will equip us for it. He doesn’t promise it will be easy, but He promises He will be with us. Grit takes faith, in ourselves, yes, but even more so in the One who called us.

I don’t know what God is calling you to right now. Maybe it’s starting that ministry that’s been gnawing at your heart. Is there a relationship God calls you to fight for when you want to leave? Maybe it’s that book you’ve always wanted to write, or the job you’re not sure you’re qualified for. It might be literally leaving this land and venturing across the sea to a new place. Whatever it is, it’s worth the risk.

Stop staring at the edge of the water. Go. Stay the course. Be gritty.

 

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The Power of Asking What If

The Power of Asking "What If?"
Photo by Emily Morter on Unsplash

I’ve always thought it was wrong to focus on the “what if’s” in life. It seems like a recipe for anxiety to imagine all that could go wrong, all that could be hiding in the darkness of “what if.” We could spend a lot of unnecessary energy trying to manage the “what if” scenarios.

But I’ve found that if I just try to ignore the “what if’s,” they don’t go away. They linger in my mind as nebulous possibilities with the power to hold back my hand from being brave. They hide in the darkness just out of sight, allowing the potential threat to grow. I’ve been discovering that there’s a lot of power to demolish lies and face the fears that grip us when we let ourselves get curious about the “what if” questions.

It started for me like this: One night this spring, as I was wrestling with my fear of failure (one of my go-to fears), I felt like God prompted me to ask, “What if you do fail?”

Which, honestly, felt like kind of a mean question. God, you’re supposed to tell me I won’t fail. You’re supposed to tell me everything will be fine.

But the truth is, it might not be. I will acknowledge that failure is a possibility, as much as I would like it not to be.

So I asked the question, “What if I fail? What’s the worst that could happen?”

If I fail, people might see. They might be disappointed. They might turn away. I might feel like an idiot (oh please, anything but that. Seriously).

“OK, well, what if they do see? What if they are disappointed? Will they really think differently of you? Probably not. They’ll probably be glad to see that you’re human. Does that define your value? No, it does not. Are you still loved? Oh yes, so very, very much. And not just by God, but most likely by those same people who have seen you fail.”

Asking myself these worst case scenario questions was not an attempt to build up my defenses to protect from the pain of experiencing them. Instead, it helped me see where I am trying to rest in others for life and love. As I overlaid God’s grace and truth on it, I realize I would survive a “what if.” Would it be painful? Maybe. Probably. But would he walk with me through it? Yes. And I have hope that I would come out better on the other side. More human. Less self-protective. Braver. More restful.

So much energy in life is expended in avoiding the “what ifs.”We try to ward off the evil, the painful, the uncomfortable, instead of trusting that a) God will walk with us through it and b) however hard it is, God can redeem.

Since then, I’ve been making a more regular practice of facing the “what ifs” head on. Confronting them is like pulling back the curtain on the Wizard of Oz and finding he’s not nearly as imposing as he’s making himself out to be. In fact, he might even be able to teach me something about what it is I want, what I fear, and how to look to God for provision and protection instead of to myself.

So ask the “what ifs.” What if I fail? What if I don’t get this job? What if things don’t turn out the way I hope? What if this situation never changes? What if my needs aren’t met? What if I don’t know what to do? What if I make a mistake? What if people see it happen?

Ask them not to guard from what could happen (or isn’t happening), but to remind yourself that whatever comes, he’s going to walk with you through it. He will help you see what is true about him, you, and others. Each time we do, we gain more courage to step with faith into the unknown.

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When Fear Is a Dictator

When Fear Is a Dictator

Confession: I have been afraid to write.

This is problematic, as I am obviously a blogger. I also have a mostly written book I sincerely hope to finish and have published.

This fear has been growing throughout the last year. It gnaws at me when I see my computer out of the corner of my eye. It pokes at me when I see other people tweeting links to wonderful posts others have written. It shuts down my thoughts. It keeps my fingers still.

It’s a fear that it won’t be enough. People won’t like what I write. It won’t draw the audience I hope it will. It will sit out there in the open like a sad, unpicked girl at a dance, while the other posts are grabbed by the hand and thrown from partner to partner.

Oh how I hate this fear. I hate the grip it has on my soul. I hate the way fear turns my eyes from God and onto me. I hate that it is a little dictator, barking at me to stay silent, to give up, to step out of the arena because if I can’t be as great as I hope I could be, then I should quit. It says it just isn’t worth it.

I’ve had enough of my little dictator.

I recently took a sabbatical from work, a time when I thought I would write more. Instead, I found God calling me first to wrestle this fear to the ground and give it a good dose of truth. It’s time to take these thoughts captive and make them obedient to Christ.

The truth is that my fear means my eyes are far too much on me. Fear makes me focus on finding my own glory, not His. Fear tells me to hustle for my worth. It demands I build a kingdom for myself, and at the same time tells me I’ll never be able to do it.

Fear loves to dictate the what, the how, the when, the how much, of our lives. It tells us to shut up. It demands that we stop trying. It tells us to shrink back and hang in the shadows of the brave places God calls us to live.

Fear whispers to us, as we stand on the edge of faith, of all that could go wrong. It takes our eyes off God and turns them to the what if’s, and maybe’s, and you’d better not’s, and what will people think’s.

It silences our voices and eventually our hearts.

So this morning I am turning my eyes back to Him.

I read today in Minding Your Emotions, “We handle fear by going from self-made to God-made, from self-important to God-honoring, from self-satisfied to God-soaked, from self-preoccupied to God-dazzled.”

There it is – I go from me to Him. I tell fear the truth that this is God’s kingdom, not mine. I tell it that I don’t have to make a kingdom for myself because this is the place where I’m already valued and free. I tell it that I’m going to step out in faith anyway because it’s not about my glory after all – it’s about His.

He strips fear of its power over us.

I’m asking Him to not let fear be my dictator, but to let His Spirit be my guide.

How is fear your dictator?

Related:

He Makes Me Brave 

Do It Scared 

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