Fear

A refreshing breath of cool air caressed my face as Andrew and I peered out of the open second story window into the gathering night.  Above, inky darkness had penetrated the purple of dusk.  Below, yellow lights winked cheerily above the neighbor's backyard patio.  The traffic signal at Foothill and Newport cycled from red to green, and the flow of traffic on the street hummed by in sync.  It was beautiful, but Andrew's eyes glittered darkly in his pale face with fear.

From his perch, one hand clenching the black leather chair back for support as he stood stiffly on its seat, the other waving at the patio cover with concern, "There's a bridge down there with a loud troll under it!"

He continued quietly, "There are really really loud trolls all around!  They are singing really loud songs!  There are loud animals all around!"

I rested my hand on his shoulder, but he wasn't reassured.  His eyes darted to and away from mine, back into the dark.  "There are really really loud goats outside."

In response, the lights of the city twinkled impartially amidst their own yellow sea-air glow.  The breeze blew a little more stiffly, and I folded Andrew into my arms with an aching heart.

How hard to watch a child develop fear.  Why fear anything?  He is safe and provided for, and there certainly are neither trolls or harmful animals outside our windows. Yet, his feeling re-kindled in my own heart a little tendril of the same creeping doubt.  I, too, have doubts about my own safety -- long forgotten, and buried by age and habit.  Because it's true that the world is a disturbing place.  It is full of both evil and sorrow, and the possibilities of evil and sorrow are never far away. 

No, we are not surrounded by loud goats or trolls.  There are no animals singing loud songs against us.  But maybe old stories about trolls under bridges, big bad wolves, and doomed gingerbread boys full of jolly hubris hint at archetypes our older eyes cease to see. After all, we and those we love will all die some day. Childhood is not the only thing that's temporary: all of this is temporary.  We must own its brevity if we are to live it truthfully.

As I struggled with how to help Andrew process his fear, I found myself taking the easy road.  I addressed the false symbols, and not the reality.  I taught him to say, "Go away, goat!  Go away, troll!  Never come back!"  His frowns turned to smiles as we said it together.  I assured him that Mama and Dada and Grandpa and Grandma would keep him safe, always, from these unwanted visitors.  I didn't mention the deeper realities I sensed he was connecting with.

The only solution to those fears is Jesus.  Later, as he lay in bed, I prayed for him that Jesus would keep all those we know and love safe.  It sounds cliche, but it really is the most fundamental reality of existence.  His cross stands between us and the dark night.  The trolls we've tried so hard to forget will climb through that window someday, and we will either embrace them in the light of hope, or we will flee with them at last in terror.

Kyrie eleison
Christe eleison
Kyrie eleison