4
That Peace
I will reject anxiety
and embrace true peace.
When peace, like a river, attendeth my way,
When sorrows like sea billows roll;
Whatever my lot, Thou hast taught me to say,
It is well, it is well, with my soul.
Horatio G. Spafford, “It Is Well with My Soul”
I was on my phone until almost 3:00 a.m. last night. I know better than to start checking on things in my own online world, much less the world at large, right before I go to sleep, but I gave in. Just for a minute. Yeah, right.
The day had been another one crammed full of bad news, with deadly shootings stacking up before we could catch our breath. I carried the frightening images, passionate words, desperate questions, and heavy heart all day. It’s hard to look away from a culture in crisis, especially when its bloody wounds are live streaming and we can take it to bed with us. This morning the day-old sorrow feels fresh, and I’m banking on God’s new mercies in the chaos of our world.
Anxiety about our world. Anxiety about my future, my health, my relationships, my kids, my weight, my house, and the dust on my furniture.
From the meaningful to the meaningless, latent anxieties crouch at the borders of my mind like squatters trying to lay claim. As soon as I turn my back, they begin to encroach. Some have infiltrated and set up tents. Others have built more permanent dwellings and behave like rightful owners of my mental and emotional landscape.
The first step toward evicting these squatters is to acknowledge them, but I really don’t want to be bothered by anxiety. As I sit with my coffee and planner each morning, anxiety is not on the agenda. Sure, it may show up, but I do all I can to avoid it. Like the kid who puts her fingers in her ears and taunts, “Nah, nah, nah . . . I can’t hearrrr you,” I’m tempted to think ignoring my fear will make it disappear. But the reality is that when I refuse to address anxiety, I surrender ground. Anxiety thrives in the darkness of denial. But when I face anxiety with the light of truth, it runs.
Vulnerable
I’m sitting on my front porch. It’s my outdoor office and keeps me “out of sight and out of mind” just long enough in our busy home to get some uninterrupted writing done. It’s quiet except for the tractor mowing next door. Our dog, Pete, is keeping me company lying next to me. It’s a muggy July morning and already in the eighties, but the shade and my glass of lemon water are keeping me cool. And there’s a breeze blowing up the mountain. It is a peaceful morning, but there’s no guarantee my day will proceed as it began.
Two weeks ago today, we were on vacation when we received a call from our daughter-in-law. Through choked tears she told us our son Daniel had been in a car accident and was taken by ambulance to the ER. His lung had collapsed, and he spent the weekend in the hospital. Photos of his totaled car told us how much worse the accident could have been.
A week and a half ago, the Istanbul airport was attacked by terrorists, and over two hundred people died. Our son Ben was in that same airport on layovers just two months ago traveling to and from Uganda. He’s home safe now, but my thoughts are pulled to the what-ifs. What if the terrorists had attacked when he was there? What if one of my loved ones is where the next attack happens? What if the attacks start happening outside the big cities of the world? What if?
As I write, my phone dings with another text from Kim, the wife of our son Josh. She has been sending photos from Brazil where Josh is meeting her extended family for the first time. They’re having a grand adventure, and it’s wonderful to see them happy. But hanging out in the back of my mind are news reports about Zika and athletes who are dropping out of the upcoming Olympics in Rio de Janeiro for fear of contracting the virus. Before they left, Josh assured me they’d be wearing long sleeves and bug repellent. The photos I’ve received of the suntanned couple in tanks and T-shirts reveal that he’s already forgotten his first promise. I’m left with a can of Off! to comfort me.
And I already told you about yesterday.
Again, it is a peaceful morning. And again, there’s no guarantee my day will proceed as it has begun. The sober reality of my life is that I am not in control. The ensuing sense of vulnerability behind that truth is enough to overwhelm a soul with anxiety.
Fear Not . . . Why Not?
“Fear not” is a popular refrain in Scripture. But why not be fearful? This is a frightening time to live! The ills of our world are real. Are we supposed to merely deceive ourselves with delusional platitudes of divine safety?
I love the hymn “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God.” It reminds us of God’s greatness and might. But the real reason I love it is because it acknowledges the very real power of Satan. I know that sounds strange, but stick with me.
For still our ancient foe doth seek to work us woe.
His craft and power are great and, armed with cruel hate,
On earth is not his equal.
Did we in our own strength confide, our striving would be losing.
Were not the right man on our side, the man of God’s own choosing.
Martin Luther
There’s something empowering about acknowledging and confronting the truth about our fear. Kind of like peeking under the bed or creaking open the closet to check for monsters. Reality is scary, but our imaginations are often worse. Facing our fear allows us to determine whether it is imaginary or real and to respond accordingly. As humans, the reality is that we are no match for our enemy: “on earth is not his equal.” If it’s only about our strength pitted against Satan’s, we’d better get our sorry selves home real quick and go into lockdown. “Did we in our own strength confide, our striving would be losing.” If we were alone, we’d be right to be in a constant state of anxiety. So how do we respond to the temptation to be anxious?
The Lord is at hand; do not be anxious about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. (Phil. 4:5–6)
In most translations of this well-known passage in Philippians, verse 6 begins with a new sentence: “Do not be anxious.” But the English Standard Version backs up a bit to the previous verse and begins the sentence, “The Lord is at hand; do not be anxious.” (Remember, the chapter and verse divisions of Scripture were added as a tool. It’s important to look backward and forward.)
That phrase, “the Lord is at hand,” makes all the difference. It brings to mind a small, frightened child in a thunderstorm. “You’re okay, honey. Daddy’s here.” Because her strong and loving daddy is with her, everything is going to be okay. She is comforted because her trust is rooted in her father’s presence and love, not by her understanding of her circumstances. The thunder and lightning are still loud and fearsome. But everything is all right because her father is “at hand.”
Whether our circumstance is a monster under the bed, thunderstorms that shake the house, or Satan himself, it’s only half the reality. The rest of our reality is that we are not alone! Jesus is Emmanuel, God with us. His power and presence are our ultimate security. His love for us is sure and has been proven: “But God clearly shows and proves His own love for us, by the fact that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us” (Rom. 5:8 AMP).
As beloved children, we are comforted by our Father’s presence and secure in our prayers and thankful supplications as we make our requests known to God. The result is his peace: “And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus” (Phil. 4:7).
It’s a peace that goes beyond our understanding and steadies and sustains our hearts in the worst circumstances. Look at this same verse in the Amplified Version:
And God’s peace [shall be yours, that tranquil state of a soul assured of its salvation through Christ, and so fearing nothing from God and being content with its earthly lot of whatever sort that is, that peace] which transcends all understanding shall garrison and mount guard over your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus. (AMP-CE)
That peace, true peace.
Close to Home
It was my worst fear. I couldn’t imagine how I could ever handle having a child suffer, much less die. I was pregnant with our first child, and we were attending the funeral of the seven-year-old son of our dear friends. He had died due to complications with leukemia. The memory of standing in line to offer our condolences after the service is vividly etched in my mind. My royal blue dress with the gold buttons down the front was just beginning to stretch slightly across my growing belly. I stood there with one hand holding on to Jeff and the other guarding the small swell as anxiety began to build a mansion in my mind.
Jim and Debbie loved God. They’d prayed for their son’s healing. Our whole church had prayed! But Ian died. Some had the callous audacity to suggest that his death was due to hidden sin or a lack of faith. But I knew better, which presented an even more challenging problem than such a foolish idea. God could have healed Ian, but he didn’t. Why? It wasn’t long after the birth of our son Joshua that the reality of God’s control—and my lack of it—sank in. Anxiety completed construction and moved in.
I couldn’t watch the news or any scary or sad movies. I was afraid to take Josh out of the house. I even questioned Jeff’s ability to keep him safe. It was all up to me, and even though I doubted I was up to the task, I would kill myself trying. If I didn’t, the anxiety would.
Josh was just a few months old when late one night I lay crying in bed, voicing to Jeff the anxiety that was consuming me.
“You have to release Josh to God and trust him,” Jeff said gently but firmly.
“I can’t,” I argued. “If I do, God might decide to take him like he did Ian.”
“God might decide to do that whether or not you release Josh. You’re not in control; he is.” Jeff called out my delusion. “If you don’t trust him, you’ll never have peace.”
And so began my sober and endless journey to release the souls I love more than life and to learn to trust a God I can’t see.
Two and a half years later, I found myself in a hospital with Josh’s six-week-old little brother, Daniel. After weeks of inexplicable projectile vomiting and a day of dry diapers, I knew something wasn’t right. The pediatrician confirmed my fears and sent us directly to the hospital for an ultrasound and probable surgery to repair pyloric stenosis, a malfunction of the muscle between the stomach and small intestine that causes vomiting and dehydration.
The ultrasound confirmed the pediatrician’s diagnosis. It was a minor surgery, but it would require Daniel to go under general anesthesia. According to the doctor, that was the greater risk. This was the very scenario I had dreaded, and I was certain it would undo me.
Daniel was admitted and put on IV fluids to rehydrate him before the surgery the next morning. Throughout the whirlwind of activity, I was just waiting to lose it. I knew it was coming any moment and just hoped it wouldn’t be as ugly and embarrassing as I imagined.
When Jeff gets here, I’ll collapse. But I didn’t.
When he leaves and I’m alone with Daniel, I’m going to fall apart. But Jeff left, and I stayed together.
When they take him for the surgery.
When he gets back.
When I see the incision.
And so on.
My breakdown never came. Instead, I heard the lyrics to the Scripture memory songs I’d been listening to the last few weeks playing in the back of my head. Words of hope, promise, and peace made their way to my conscious thought every time I needed them. It was amazing! That evening, I held and sang to Daniel late into the night with the knowledge that these could be my last hours with him.
That might sound melodramatic. I don’t really know how at risk Daniel was. I only know that the young mother I was shouldn’t have been so calm. Something had changed in me that gave me the security to face my present and possible impending reality with a peace I’d never known before. A peace “which surpasses all understanding.” That peace.
Daniel survived his surgery, and we went home the next day. Twenty-four years later, Daniel bears a small scar on his stomach. I have a scar too. It’s on my heart along with dozens more, reminders of God’s ability to sustain me through the unthinkable and turn my greatest fears into places of deep intimacy and trust in his power and goodness.
Anxiety’s Grip
Anxiety is a powerful motivator—powerful enough to fuel a lifetime of striving. As women who seem to be programmed to love, nurture, and care for our families and friends, we are uniquely susceptible to anxiety and fear. Care that causes concern can transform into worry in a millisecond. For some of us, that slippery slope is the only path our hearts know. But the rotten fruit of fear is destruction.
The alternative to anxiety and fear is trust, but trust seems so amorphous. It sounds good, but how do we catch and hold on to it? It’s like a bubble—a pretty idea that doesn’t seem to hold up in the face of our trials, real and imagined. So we turn to fear as if it were something more solid and tangible. But fear doesn’t change anything. Not only is fear destructive, it’s also futile: “And which of you by being anxious can add a single hour to his span of life? If then you are not able to do as small a thing as that, why are you anxious about the rest?” (Luke 12:25–26).
Obviously, we need something concrete to hold on to when we’re afraid. For the rest of this chapter, I want to look more deeply at three common responses to fear and anxiety. As we consider these familiar responses, it’s my hope that you will discover not only the wisdom, joy, and freedom of trusting God but its pragmatism as well.
I had a nightmare last night. It was the kind that wakes you up with your heart beating out of your chest and then draws you back in because it feels more like reality than your crumpled sheets and warm pillow. It tosses you back and forth a bit before it surrenders and leaves you lying wide-eyed, staring at the ceiling, heart pounding, and talking yourself down from the cliff edge of anxiety.
We’ve all had that kind of dream. It leaves us somewhere between “that was absolutely ridiculous!” and “what if something like that really happened?” or “why in the world did I dream that?” Thankfully, dreams in the dark don’t make much sense when analyzed in the morning light. As frightening as nightmares can be, the anxiety they induce is usually smoothed away as we make the bed, putting our minds and sheets back in order.
The anxiety that robs us in our waking hours is of a more subtle variety. It comes in the back door, squatter like, and looks for its opportunity to blend in unnoticed. It has many disguises: busyness, harsh words, control, manipulation, anger, yelling, and sarcasm, to name just a few. And we typically respond to it in one of three ways: denial, delusion, or despair.
Denial Is Not Just a River in Egypt
I’d prefer not to acknowledge my mind’s “squatters.” Maybe if I pretend they’re not there, they’ll go away. But while unwarranted fear is destructive, the very real threats of life demand a response. Ignoring them is dangerous. Consider this scenario: you’re lying in bed. It’s 2:00 a.m., and you awaken to hear banging outside your window, then whispering—maybe even words that suggest dastardly plans. As much as you might wish your sweet sleep had continued uninterrupted, you’d be foolish to turn up the fan, roll over, and snuggle back in. On the other hand, you might freeze in fear. But if you’re smart, you’ll pull out your inner superhero, grab your phone, and call 911. The anxiety of an impending threat is your call to action.
But that’s an extreme example. Take something more common like an overdue bill, a big one. Now there’s some anxiety! When your budget is already stretched between one grocery trip and the next with barely enough room for your favorite coffee indulgence once a week, there are all kinds of temptations to ignore the Mt. Kilimanjaro bill at the bottom of the stack. “Maybe next month,” you tell yourself again, ignoring the impending threat of further fees and financial consequences. Does that hit too close to home? It does for me. Been there. I’m not suggesting the solution to something like this is simple. I don’t have a money tree or a wealthy grandparent. But I do know that responding to the anxiety with denial only digs me deeper into difficult circumstances. Whether it’s a nagging relationship issue, a bad habit, finding a lump on my body, or a big bill, responding in denial to the anxiety these things induce is dangerous.
Possibly the most destructive aspect of denial is the means to which we go to keep ourselves floating on the deceptively smooth waters of de Nile. I’m talking about those “Nah, nah, nah,” fingers-in-the-ears manipulations of our minds and emotions, also known as our escapes: food, television, shopping, sleep, social media, or just one more glass of wine. They’re the good gifts of God that we misuse in our desperation, things that might be fine in their proper place but are potentially destructive and futile as a response to anxiety and fear.
“I’ve got this.”
The delusion of control is heady and hard won. We chase it down with new planners and articles and books or with the latest system, online course, gizmo, or gadget. Education, vocation, nutrition, recreation: they’re all tools we pull into our arsenal to protect ourselves from life’s inevitable anxieties. Tools have their place. They’re useful. But when they quit being anything but a servant, beware!
As I learned to release my children to God with each birth, including two preemie babies who collectively spent a month in the NICU, I loosened my grip a tiny bit. But even though I knew their lives and deaths were beyond my control, I was determined to make whatever lives they did have as safe and secure as possible. Of course I was! I was their mom. Keeping them safe is part of the job description, right? Yes. And no. (We’ll talk more about this in chap. 8.)
Survival is good, and safety is an effective means toward that end. But hanging out at the starting gate of parenting, as well as any other endeavor we care deeply about, are those squatters. We may begin with pure motives and our eyes focused on the finish line, but the more we care about a thing, the more anxiety will be there to trip us up.
Want to feed your family nutritious food? Awesome! But between the endless and often conflicting information and limited resources of time and money, trying to feed your family nutritiously can produce an ulcer.
Concerned about your child’s education? Of course you are! But the options are many, and culture seems to be convinced that your child’s entire future and well-being hinge on which option you choose for preschool. After you’ve agonized and finally made your choice, you discover it was only the first of hundreds of choices you will have to make over the next twelve-plus years of your child’s academic life.
And the list goes on. Forever.
The theme song for my mothering became an anything but harmonious, two-part dirge playing on repeat in my head. The lyrics alternated between “I’ll never be enough” and “I’m going to get my act together.” I bought fully into the delusion that if I tried hard enough, went fast enough, got up early enough, prayed and read my Bible enough, and did a soul-sucking amount of every-last-thing-I-could-think-of enough, I would finally get my act together and somehow be enough. Control. It was how I faced down those parenting anxieties.
Routine and order have never been my strength. I’m great at making plans and buying planners but struggle to execute said plans. I could give you plenty of explanations from all the personality tests I’ve taken over the years as to why this is not a strength of mine, but whether you are a natural Martha Stewart of efficiency or not, the relentless and delusional pursuit of control will eat your lunch every time. And if it can’t take your lunch, it will be content with your stomach lining.
Like the obsessed Captain Ahab, we hunt the great white whale of control with a mixture of fear and vengeance. The delusion is deceptive. Moby Dick is bigger and stronger than any boat, and he has an agenda too: ruin. We chase the delusion of control at the cost of our souls.
Drowning in Despair
I did it again. I checked Facebook right before bed. Another attack, tearful sympathies expressed for France, a new hashtag. And desperate posts.
“When will this end?”
“Lord, have mercy. Please.”
Undeniable. Absolutely beyond any delusions of control. Despair.
It seems to be crouching at the door of all our hearts recently. While many women have lived with such violence throughout the world and history, it’s somewhat new to our relatively safe and comfortable, Western, twenty-first-century lives. Until 9/11, most of our acquaintances with terrorist attacks came via the news. But after that day, when almost three thousand lives were lost, over six thousand injured, and millions changed forever, “safe” became tenuous. Now it seems we are imploding as our culture turns on itself, and violence from both within and without our borders escalates.
When our anxieties and fears have given birth to a reality that won’t be denied or controlled by the most Herculean of deluded efforts, despair makes sense. It is logical—that is, if we are by ourselves and on our own.
On that day, when evening had come, he said to them, “Let us go across to the other side.” And leaving the crowd, they took him with them in the boat, just as he was. And other boats were with him. And a great windstorm arose, and the waves were breaking into the boat, so that the boat was already filling. But he was in the stern, asleep on the cushion. And they woke him and said to him, “Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing?” And he awoke and rebuked the wind and said to the sea, “Peace! Be still!” And the wind ceased, and there was a great calm. He said to them, “Why are you so afraid? Have you still no faith?” And they were filled with great fear and said to one another, “Who then is this, that even the wind and the sea obey him?” (Mark 4:35–41)
I was caught on the water in a storm once. Jeff, eighteen-month-old Josh, and I had spent a few days at his parents’ house on the river. It was our last day there, and we were ready to head home. We went down to the dock to check on the boat before we left. It had rained the night before, and the bilge pump hadn’t done its job. The floor of the boat was covered in a couple inches of water. Jeff said we needed to take it out, get it up to speed, and pull the plug out so the water would drain. That sounded suspiciously counterintuitive to me, but Jeff was the expert. I suited Josh up in his little Ninja Turtle life vest, and we headed out. The rain was still coming down but not too hard. As we gained speed Jeff pulled the plug, and the water began to drain. His plan was working, until we ran over a crab pot that wrapped itself around the propeller blade and brought us to a full stop. Jeff struggled to get the plug back in, as all the water we’d managed to lose and then some rushed back into our boat.
The rain and wind were picking up. Thanks to the crab pot, our motor was useless, and the waves were pushing us toward the rocky shore. Jeff said we’d both have to get out of the boat and push it away from the rocks. Remember, Josh was with us and was remaining in the boat while we literally jumped ship (now there’s some therapy)!
We successfully evaded the rocks, and wide-eyed Josh was still sitting in the boat when we climbed back in. Jeff began furiously rowing with the one oar in the boat—until it broke in half.
Now the rain was pouring down. The waves were rough and high and getting rougher and higher. Our motor and solitary oar were broken. We were headed toward the rocky shore again. And Jesus was not taking a nap in the back of our boat.
Our desperate circumstances were undeniable. They were beyond any delusions of control. Despair seemed fitting.
Then we saw a boat headed our way from the shore. We waved wildly just in case they had some reason to be out on the water in a storm other than our rescue. As the boat headed our way, despair began to give way to hope. Our rescuer arrived and towed us back to shore safe and sound. The boat would need a few repairs, but the three of us walked away unscathed and with a great story.
Unlike our little family, Jesus’s disciples were in the boat with God in the flesh—Emmanuel, God with us, the One who made the storm. Nevertheless, they gave way to despair: “‘Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing?’ And he awoke and rebuked the wind and said to the sea, ‘Peace! Be still!’ And the wind ceased, and there was a great calm.”
What seemed to concern Jesus much more than their desperate circumstances was the lack of faith demonstrated by his disciples. He asked them, “Why are you so afraid? Have you still no faith?”
Their loving Lord was at hand. They had no need to despair.
The Strong Anchor of Trust
The flash of blue catches my eye and pulls me away from my anxious thoughts. The small indigo bunting looks like it fell into a vat of the deepest blue dye. It is brilliant. I watch it intently, soaking up its beauty as quickly as I can. I know it will fly away any moment. Tears quietly surface in my eyes. That’s what beauty does. It reminds us of perfection. Eden. Home.
My soul resonates with the unblemished moment of perfect creation in the indigo bunting. Or a moment of music. A work of art. A scent. A sunset. They all evoke the perfection and intimacy we are homesick for—a glimpse and reminder of our Creator, a promise of our reunion.
It’s no wonder anxiety eats away at our souls and our stomach linings. It’s the opposite of what we were created for. It’s an invader that taunts and threatens all that is holy in us and in our world, a threat that will rob us of the present, of our peace, and of our purpose. God knows how dangerous anxiety is, and he’s taught us how to combat it. We must grant it no quarter.
And though this world, with devils filled, should threaten to undo us,
We will not fear, for God hath willed his truth to triumph through us.
The Prince of Darkness grim, we tremble not for him;
His rage we can endure, for lo, his doom is sure;
One little word shall fell him.
Martin Luther, “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God”
If we were on our own, it would make sense to be anxious. “Were not the right man on our side,” it would be reasonable to give in to the anxieties and fears that tell us to believe naive platitudes that “everything will be fine,” to give our lifeblood to contrived efforts to secure our safety, or to stay home and pull the covers up over our heads.
Denial, delusion, and despair. So far our options don’t look too great. They force us into a place of rational decision and help us to see that by not choosing to trust God in all our circumstances, we are at the mercy of our enemy.
Yet trust can seem so naive, and worry seems almost responsible. To onlookers, trusting God can look foolish, even negligent. And maybe it is a negligence of sorts—a turning away from the denial, delusion, and despair of a soul adrift with no anchor and turning toward the Savior who knows your situation better than you ever could and has promised to rescue you. Ralph Waldo Emerson recognized the peaceful fruit of this sort of negligence: “He will calmly front the morrow in the negligency of that trust which carries God with it, and so hath already the whole future in the bottom of the heart.”1
There’s a high cost to not trusting God. Daniel and I were talking the other day. After surviving his car crash, collapsed lung, and hospital stay, he is home safe, but with no car.
“How am I going to get to work?” Daniel asked. “I don’t have the money to buy another car.” I could hear the stress in his voice.
“Daniel, you need to trust God. You must trust God. This situation is bigger than you. I know you don’t have the financial means, but if you don’t trust God both you and your family will suffer under your stress. Making the choice to take each step and walk through this in faith is not an option. It’s necessary!”
Ironically, it’s almost easier to trust God when our lung is collapsed and we’re lying by the side of the road or when our infant son is facing emergency surgery. When life spirals out of our control, we trust him because we are left without options. These desperate crises can become some of our most intimate times with God. We cry out, and he answers.
After we brought our newborn son Joe home from his three-week stay in the NICU, I prayed a prayer that I’ve prayed many times ever since: “God, you were so close to me in the hospital when I was facing the very real threat of the death of our son. You revealed your love, power, and presence to me in such personal and unmistakable ways. Can you please teach me how to trust you like I did when there was absolutely nothing I could do to change my desperate circumstances? I want to be that close to you every day and not only when my life is in crisis!”
God has been faithful to answer that prayer. He continues to teach me how to walk near to him, acknowledging who is on my side and trusting in his wisdom and power. Peace inevitably follows.
Jeff and I have been married thirty years. I trusted him the day I said “I do,” but that trust is nothing like the trust I have in him today. Thirty years of living and loving have confirmed Jeff’s trustworthiness. I trust him because I am well acquainted with him. Not only is he handsome and fun-loving, but he is also a strong and loving man of deep integrity. Throughout our many years of marriage, his love for me has been tried and found to be steadfast. I trust Jeff because I know him.
In order to trust God the way we must in a world full of anxiety, it’s imperative that we become well acquainted with him and his attributes, character, and promises. Then we must make that acquaintance and knowledge our primary place of refuge—our go-to in both our crises and our everyday trials. He has given us his Word, and it assures us of his presence, protection, and peace. Even in the worst of storms.
QUESTIONS FOR REFLECTION
What are the top three sources of anxiety in your life right now?
How does knowing your Father is at hand comfort you?
After Paul reassures us of God’s presence, he says, “Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God” (Phil. 4:6–7). Do you respond to anxiety by turning to God in prayer?
Why do you think Paul tells us to ask (supplication) with thanksgiving?
Have you ever experienced a peace that you couldn’t explain? Describe it.
In what areas of your life is it hardest for you to trust God? Easiest?
What is your typical response to anxiety: denial, delusion, despair, or trust? Explain.
What moves you? How do these glimpses of God’s perfection make you long for Eden?
Are you well acquainted with God? Do you know him well enough to trust him? How might you become more familiar with him?