A few months ago I preached a sermon on fear and our worship director edited the lyrics of “Lead On, O King Eternal.” Instead of singing, “We follow not with fear,” together we sang, “We follow through our fears.”
Where is God when terror strikes? When our heads pop off the pillow at night because of a nightmare–real or imagined? When the news is bad, the diagnosis is poor, the unthinkable might actually happen?
It was my son’s second month of kindergarten, and we were walking to our car together after school.
“Robert* has a real gun at home,” he said offhandedly. “He’s going to bring it to school in his backpack to show me.” My blood turned to ice.
“A real one?” I asked. “Did he say when he is going to bring it?”
“Probably tomorrow,” my son said, bending over to pick up a rock and toss it in front of him on the sidewalk, blissfully unaware of the potential drama unfolding in my mind. To my son, guns were only Nerf or water guns, fun to play with in the neighborhood cul-de-sac. He had never seen a movie shootout or gone hunting. The lethality of which he spoke eluded him.
I called my husband Daryl at work, relayed the conversation, and burst into tears.
Read the rest over at The Glorious Table.
* Name has been changed.