I struggle with anxiety. I am a worrier. Sue me.
I have been told it’s probably hard for my husband that I deal with anxiety, and I heartily agree. But it’s even harder on me. I have also been told that Christianity must not be working because if it worked, I wouldn’t be so fearful all the time.
If my faith was authentic, I would be at peace.
People have the notion that since I am so often limping along, dragging my frazzled nerves behind me, God must not be real. If He was real, I would not be suffering so much. I have had all sorts of suggestions.
Maybe if I found peace within, I would be better off.
Maybe if I found peace from the universe, I would be mellow.
Self-help books.
Hypnosis.
Hugged some crystals.
Or smoked pot. (This is Washington, so it is legal, which makes that suggestion a little bit less shocking.)
If I just tried something else, I would be courageous. But since I lack courage, I lack God.
I totally get why people are confused.
If you wanted a poster child for the Christian faith, you wouldn’t choose me because I give God a bad name. I do not advertise the peace that passeth understanding, I will admit that. I would make a better candidate for a Prozac commercial, and I would be the before example.
This would have bothered me a few years back.
I would have felt awful that I was turning people away from Jesus with my cowardice way of living.
Back before I realized that God doesn’t need me to uphold His reputation. Before I understood that people are dead in their sins before Jesus and since a dead person can’t do anything, they need to be brought to life first. I can’t breathe life into anyone. I can barely keep my dishes done. God does the calling. The saving. The rescuing. I am to share the Gospel, but I don’t save anyone. No, you don’t want me in charge of something so important as an eternal soul. I would mess that up so bad.
