My biblical heroines, my fellow sufferers, are rock-solid. We’ve seen them go from weakness to strength, shame to dignity. From heartsickness to happiness, we link arms and walk together in the tight-knit clique of girl power. Together we are bold; we are defiantly joyful. We are kicking butt and taking names—until the “Eye of the Tiger” music comes to a screeching halt, and we are faced unexpectedly with fear. Fears lie dormant. They have been there all along but awaken like Bilbo’s dragon. Just when we think we are getting somewhere in our journey, fears stand in the way of great treasure. We can’t go any further in our discussion of strength, dignity, and laughter without confronting fear.

Fear. An ugly, nauseous word. Fear blows into our worlds uninvited and surrounds, thick like dog breath. It presses down, lies heavily on our chests, strangling and choking. It desires to paralyze, to make us sick. No longer can we walk poised. Fear trips our confident strides, and they become unwieldy. Hemmed in by an almost visible, stinking cloud of fear, we find ourselves self-focused, scratching to look out for number one. We believe the lies of self-preservation; we become tricked into distrusting Jesus.

Fear takes no prisoners. Fear just goes for the jugular, striking where it hurts. Fear leaves no one untouched, zeroing in on the most vulnerable parts of us, the most fragile. And the most costly.

I have a dear friend whose husband once got in a nasty motorcycle accident, and now, every single time any member of her family is on the road, she is stifled by fear and unable to think of anything else. Another friend faces the dread of miscarrying yet again, having her deepest desire stolen repeatedly. She fears the sight of blood, which threatens to rip her heart out. Others of my friends have battled loneliness, health problems, career loss, depression, cancer, sudden deaths in the family, and husbands with addictions. Satan always goes for the chink in the armor, threatening us with loathsome thoughts, with wild imaginations, with taunting and the cruel dangling of life’s horrors in front of our faces.

I knew fear intimately as a little girl. I endured many years petrified of the dark, thanks to scary movies and an overactive imagination. I would lie awake, sure I had seen something slithering in the shadows. I would nearly suffocate myself under the covers, believing that if I could hide long enough, they would protect me from whatever was lying in wait to harm me. It was more than just a childhood phase. After I got married I still turned on every light in the house on the nights when Britt went out of town, which were often. I’d play worship music on the stereo to calm my anxieties, but since those were the days before digital music, I also had to get up every fifty-four minutes or so to push play again. One night I was so tormented by fear, I threw one-year-old Isaiah in the car at midnight and drove across town to my mom’s house to sleep in her room with her.

My list of fears doesn’t stop at sleeping alone in the house. I’ve been afraid of becoming a victim of road rage, afraid of bad guys coming into my house. I’ve let panic overcome me when my children were out of my sight for longer than a few minutes, or when my husband was driving home late at night. I’ve been paralyzed with trepidation over large dogs, bears on hiking trails, and shark sightings near my local surf spot.

Some of these fears are legit but unwarranted—I’ve never been bitten by a dog, shark, or bear, and I’ve never had my house broken into. Others are silly but unfortunately justifiable, such as my fear of getting bucked off a horse or being walked in on while peeing in a public restroom, since these things have happened to me more than once. But perhaps the most outlandish fear I’ve had is that a psycho, demon-possessed person might pull a gun on my husband while he’s preaching in the pulpit. It’s something I’ve worried about ever since a bloody, drunk guy covered in stab wounds charged him onstage at our college group one night. Yes, that actually happened.

So many unknowns, such a veritable buffet of things to fear. But, having lived a life of relative peace and safety, none of these things were ever actually worth the time and energy required to worry, to freak out, to agitate, to grind my teeth over—until the day it all changed, when this mother’s greatest fear was realized.

Fear has been a committed, malicious attendant since Daisy’s first diagnosis. It’s such a wretched, unwelcome thing. An oily fiend. Yet I have become well acquainted with it, with that unmistakable metallic tang of horror, rudely assaulting every cell of my body. As fear has fermented and matured, it has evolved and taken on different feelings, different reactions. It has become a familiar sour taste in my mouth, a scent that causes my stomach to lurch.

Cancer is an infamously moving target, carrying with it myriad atrocious possible side effects and outcomes—all unknown, yet all disfiguring. The side effects and survival rates became overflowing vessels of pain and sorrow, balancing what was most valuable to me on earth in their menacing claws. It was shockingly unfair.

For three and a half years, every time I saw the doctor’s number come up on my phone, I felt sick. Every time the scent of the antimicrobial soap in the hospital wafted past, my heart raced. Every lab report, every drop of chemo being pushed into Daisy’s veins, every sharply stinging shot that made her cry brought a rush of choking sensations. Even the vials for her precious blood samples induced alarm.

But the pinnacle of the unspeakable thing we call cancer treatment was the scans. Like clockwork, starting about a week before a scheduled CT scan, I would lose my mind. I felt catatonic for days, steeling every nerve to receive what could potentially be devastating news and would indicate whether Daisy’s cancer had grown or shrunk. It was like opening the closet door after having seen evidence of the most hideous monster you can imagine. Was it home? Would it come out this time and rip your head off, tear your heart out? Or would it have gone out for a quick lunch, lulling you into a false sense of security, only to arrive back at any moment? In the days before a scan, I didn’t eat and could hardly take care of myself, let alone my family. I couldn’t think about anything other than the looming verdict. I shut down, heavily.

The crazy thing is, now my worst fear has been realized. My daughter’s life was overcome by cancer, snuffed out with a ragged final breath inches from my face. I have buried my most precious little girl. And, depending on the angle from which I look, depending on the lens through which I choose to peer, I could conceivably say it was worth being afraid. I could argue that I should, in fact, stay afraid as a form of protection, because life is brutal and good things don’t last.

Or I could say that God was with me, that he received Daisy into his arms, that he carried us through the valley of the shadow of death and will continue to be present in our time of need. It’s my choice how I want to view it. Either way, fear is real, and though the vast majority of our fears will never be realized, sometimes wretched stuff happens.

Fears abound in most of us, yet we keep them hidden. We nourish and feed them like parasites. We hold on to them, believing keeping them close will help our situation, as if fretting hard enough will make it all better. We are convinced worrying can heal or save or keep our loved ones from harm. We spend hours mulling over potential circumstances and wringing our hands. We sleep with the covers over our heads and every light on. We are haunted. We are left exhausted, raw, and no better off for all the freaking out.

I have to be honest: I still become fearful sometimes. I now know deep sorrow. I have tasted death and confusion and bitter grief. I know that what I once thought only happened to other people can happen to me. I used to see the lady with the cancer kid and think, Oh, how terrible, but the next thing I knew, I was the one pushing an IV pole down the hospital corridor with my own bald daughter and her teddy bear. Life changes in a blink.

So much of what we think is solid here on earth is not. Anything can happen. I am not out of the woods, and neither are you. Hurt and death and sorrow and disaster happen every day, and they could come knocking on my door again. There is no guarantee that my other two children will make it to adulthood, or that the baby I’m carrying in my womb as I write this will be born alive. There’s no guarantee that I won’t get cancer or have my leg bitten off by a shark or crash my car into a ditch. Sometimes, much too often, the fear I wear, like an ill-fitting, bulky garment while trying to swim, overwhelms me and drags me down.

Anything can be the catalyst. I feel the familiar churning pit in my stomach, and soon I feel the urge to use the bathroom because I’m anxious, worried, queasy. Do you know what I mean? Just yesterday Fifi fell down, hurting her belly on the left side. Nausea settled in as I remembered how a fall had burst Daisy’s tumor, on the same side as Fifi’s new bruise. Cue the curtains. I can actually see the lights fading now that deep grief and loss are my constant companions.

It doesn’t take much, usually, for me to go dark. I joke with my husband and close friends about my PTSD. Hyperventilating over a bug bite on my baby? Oh, that’s just my PTSD acting up. In a catatonic state because I was sure my son got kidnapped? Yeah, PTSD. But it’s no joke. I go so quickly into the freak-out zone. The smallest thing threatens to drown me in fear, take over my thoughts. It keeps me immobile, eyes wild.

In fact, when Fifi was three months old, she contracted whooping cough. There was an epidemic in my area, and my homeschooled son had brought it home from junior high youth group. Babies under six months old are at risk of death from this freight train of an illness, and there had already been a death in our city caused by it.

I watched helplessly as my tiny girl struggled to catch her breath after each coughing spell. That’s where the whooping part comes in. Her body would expel every speck of air, and then, as she tried to breathe in, she would make a desperate whooping sound through constricted air passages. Every single hour she coughed laboriously, the spasms refusing to stop. Her face and lips would turn blue, her eyes frenetic, as she hysterically waved her arms around, looking to us to save her. Hourly we helped her catch her breath, blowing in her face at just the right time, triggering an infant’s instinct to suck in air.

Needless to say, my heart dropped out of my chest every single time she turned blue. I felt the crazies rising up in me, body shaking at the thought of wrapping another baby in linen and laying her to rest. Hourly I raged against massive panic. I fought hard against the physical sensations, the frenzied attempts to help her. The intense blue-faced coughing went on for six weeks, then another five months of coughing fits without the whoop. I was mowed down by fear, totally and completely spent.

We survived whooping cough, but still, I find myself every now and then surrendering to this unknowable emotion of fear—handing my heart and soul and wellness to this sickening enemy. I might as well wrap them up and tie on a bow. I hand it all over, on a platter. “Here, Fear. Have it. Have all my well-being. Have my peace. Have my faith in God, while we’re at it, because who needs faith when they have worry?” And I hate it. I hate myself for it. I hate the state it puts me in. I hate who I become after I give in to it.

Fear causes us to miss out on the beauty and joy that exists in every life. Fear robs, steals, pillages our very hearts and leaves behind a greasy film not removable by human hands. Fear is the unwelcome greedy guest, the depressing third wheel, the clinging darkness clouding the light of the Son. Fear takes all the joy out of today, sucks the life out of me and everyone around me—but worst of all, fear says, “I don’t trust you; you are not good,” to God.

I know I’m not the only one who has a list of fears. You might not have walked through cancer and bereavement, but maybe you’re the woman who has blown it so hard that you’re bracing yourself for the consequences of your sinful actions. What if you have experienced a violent breakup and now fear a hostile man? Or you’ve had addictions to substances or unhealthy behaviors or habitual lies and are too afraid to quit, fear begging you to carry on? What if you are so broken up inside over your wretchedness, over the sin you have hidden, over the pain you have caused, that you feel you can’t go on, afraid that you have been rejected by God and anyone else who knows who you really are? Fear has got you in its vulgar grip.

What about the girl who feels unseen, unloved, overlooked, and fears being left alone? Or the one who appears so amazing on the outside and is applauded for her perfection but is a hot mess on the inside? The pretender who fears being found out?

Or maybe your life is awesome and wonderful, and you’re afraid that it will come crashing down at any moment, for no apparent reason.

We all have fears. But that’s not the end for us. Because you know what I know? You know what I overheard through the tent? Don’t be afraid. Over and over in the Word, God said to his people, “Do not be afraid.” Jesus repeatedly told his disciples, “Fear not.”

This may sound like a pipe dream of boldness and courage, yet wearing fear like an everyday garment is no way to live. Though fear is a formidable and relentless monster, we can learn how to fight. We can learn to be guided by Jesus when we are held down, crushed, and suffocated.

I have learned to put down my Coke bottles and pick up my Truth lenses. Strength comes swiftly as I seek to know what is true about the whole business. Jesus said in John 14:27, “I am leaving you with a gift—peace of mind and heart. And the peace I give is a gift the world cannot give. So don’t be troubled or afraid.”

You who fear, do this with me. Lean closely enough to hear him and understand with clarity what he is saying to us. Let us make a trade; instead of storing up fears in our hearts, give them to Jesus. Pour them out at his feet, pooled and congealed. A disgusting virus to be rid of. Setting aside the fear of the future sets us free—and in it we realize we never had control in the first place.

By faith we receive in return for our fears a glorious truth: that he is for us, that he longs to give us peace, that he is right here with us offering to carry our burdens. By faith we hold these things; by faith we look at Jesus’ track record and realize he can be trusted. By faith we see ourselves in light of the history of the world and realize there’s a greater plan. By faith we obey his Word, knowing he is worthy, he is bigger than us, and he is love.

What a gift it is to know and believe he truly is our Shepherd, that he searches to find us when we’re lost, fights wolves for us. I don’t want to be defined by my circumstances or let them dictate my days. Do you? We can experience deep heartache and still experience exultant joy. We can daringly walk in who God made us to be and not be swallowed up by fear. And we don’t walk alone. Our community of suffering provides comfort, yes, but it also ignites courage.

I want to take our friendship with Mary a little deeper. Let’s look at some crucial and scary parts of her life a little more closely. Because Mary was dauntless in her yes. And Mary was favored in ways so inconsistent with how we understand blessings.

Not Mary the sinless, blond-haired, baby-blue-dress-wearing picture of placid perfection—Mary of serene loveliness, smiling with lips softly closed and head tilted just right. No, not her. The Mary I read of in Scripture is the one with guts, true grit, and unwavering faith in her Creator, the Master Storyteller.

Bold Mary—chosen not only for the most mysterious and honorable task a human can perform, but also one incredibly risky. Her responsibility laid bare her whole self and forced her to give up everything.

Fearless Mary—destined to be seen in her community as unfaithful to Joseph. She didn’t allow the fear of others’ opinions to affect her obedience.

Indomitable Mary—who relinquished her security, choosing the unknown of what was to come. She was aware that she could be stoned for what her neighbors and family thought she had done. The first human prepared to die for Jesus, before he was even born.

The night she pledged her service to the King of Glory—the night she agreed to the blessed yet rugged life—she said yes to things she couldn’t imagine. She would need supernatural courage to walk through them. And though she was considered favored and blessed by God, he allowed her to endure the unimaginable.

Mary, favored and blessed, fled a murderous king in the night to protect her treasure, our treasure. Mary, favored and blessed, endured losing her twelve-year-old son while on a trip to Jerusalem. She anxiously, frantically searched for her firstborn. And Mary, favored and blessed, was destined to watch her precious God-man son—the one she made room for in her young womb, the one she nursed in the night, whose fever she felt with a mother’s kiss, whose tears she dried, whose skinned knees she bandaged—endure torture and shame. Mary, favored and blessed, watched as her boy hung on the cross, consumed in excruciating pain. Mary, favored and blessed, heard his familiar voice as he cried out, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” Mary, favored and blessed, hung her head and slowly turned toward home as they laid him in the ground—rolling the stone firmly over all her hopes.

Mary lived a lionhearted life. From the harrowing adventure beginning with celestial greetings, to the tedious years of Jesus’ boyhood, she fearlessly served God. Mary’s life—it wasn’t glamorous, it wasn’t comfortable, it wasn’t conventional or even safe, but it was blessed. The Mary I know was audaciously willing to be a vital part of the narrative, the grand story culminating in flesh. Regardless of the scary parts, regardless of the fear. And she did it with her eyes ever fixed on the God to whom she said yes.

Mary’s life makes me rethink what it means to be favored and blessed. She causes me to adjust my perspective on fear. She shows me what to do with it, how to handle it. And Mary’s life encourages me to no longer see mine as tragic and unfortunate, but rather as favored and blessed. Her company reveals how stunning bravery looks on a woman, how being clothed in strength is utterly becoming.

When we search the Word and read of historical heroines, and even when we step back and look at ourselves with open eyes, we see how God is ever working. We experience the tough times, yes—the hardship, ugly crying, confusion, and trouble—but with courage we are able to say by faith that we trust him. We will go where he leads. We look up and know that though things might not be going according to our own plans, there is a much richer one in place, put there by the Master Planner.

It’s up to us. We decide if we are to hold on to disappointments. We can let fear creep and grow like pond scum, reaching to our exterior and crowding out the light, or we can walk in the strength he supplies, exchanging the despicable for the dependable. We decide if we are willing to laugh without fear.