Fear is my every-day enemy. It lays thick on me, like July in an upstairs room.
And the cure, they say, is nothing short of war. A war with the weapons of quiet.
The weapons of ‘be still’ and knowing, knowing that He is God. How many times will I say that?
The weapons of keeping on in humdrum obedience.
It’s the war that looks like standing still and the one that is already won.
For who can separate us from the love of God? Not circumstances, not the suffering, not tears.
Fly then, fears. Into the wind and over the river, above the heads of them laughing on the slippery rocks.
You never had a chance.