What This Mother Fears Most

“What are you afraid of, Mommy?”

His sweaty head is wedged between my chin and my shoulder, and the hot breath from his sleepy whisper tickles my neck.

I’m crammed beside him in the top bunk because those bad dreams woke him up again, and he believes that his mommy’s prayers can chase away the nightmares.

So we’ve prayed and cuddled, and my left leg is falling asleep, and that’s what my whole body really wants to do, just stretch out in my own bed and fall into the 4 A.M. silence.

He’s already admitted that he’s afraid of those monsters in his dreams, and perhaps he’s wondering if he’s the only one who ever lies awake at night and worries about what he’ll see if he closes his drooping eyelids.

He presses his nose against my arm and mumbles it again, “Are you afraid of anything, Mommy?”

And I wonder how to answer that six-year-old question, wonder how a mama explains that what keeps her awake at night is not the fear of monsters or the dismay of darkness, but the fear of living in her own shadows of doubt.

“I’m afraid of putting God in a box,” I murmur as the moonbeams dance quiet through the window. “And I’m afraid of what I’ll teach you if I do.

Suddenly, I can picture Beth Moore in the middle of an arena, her hair piled high on top of her head, her slender arms flailing in the air as she begged us to live with wild faith. And then she spoke the words that sparked a fire in this mama’s heart. And even though I was sitting near the rafters, I felt like she’d been talking just to me on that night in Kansas City.

“Girls, if you wanna give your kids just a little bit of God, then pray a little and sit in church a little and fall just a little bit in love with Jesus.”

She’d tilted her chin to gaze all the way up to the nosebleed section where I sat with my gaggle of girlfriends, and I was sure that she could see the white of my wide-open eyes. 

Then she’d swallowed hard and lowered her voice. “But, mamas, be warned. If you give your kids just a little of God, they will believe that God is little.”

My heart is racing fast as I remember, and I think of those words that I wrote in my journal exactly one year ago, on the day that the tree in my front yard bloomed bras-

Lord, I could be halfway through my life by now. And I don’t want to live another day with half-way faith. I want ALL of you and nothing less….

I had no idea what I was asking for;  I only knew this to be true: A small god makes for a small life.

And on that day I turned forty, I realized that life is too short to live small.

And one year later, I know this to be true, as well–

Life with a great big God doesn’t always feel comfortable or safe. It doesn’t always follow my script or fall under the category of sensible and sane.

When we let God out of the box, He does not step out with a harness on and offer us the reigns.

He bursts out like a lion and dares us to grab a hold of his mane and ride.

To be honest, some days I just want to grab the hammer and pound down the lid once again. I want to trade the Lion for a kitty cat.

But fear keeps me from picking up the nails and closing the lid. Because I’m more afraid of living with a little God than I am of following a big wild Savior.

It was a big radical love that drove Jesus to the cross. And an impractical and insane obedience that propelled him to take the nails in his hands and feet for me.

And if that’s the kind of love that saved me, then I want to follow my Savior with that same kind of love, no matter where he leads.

I remember what little Lucy asked Mr. Beaver when she first glimpsed Aslan in the land of Narnia. “Is he–quite safe?”

And dear old Mr. Beaver replied, “Safe? Who said anything about safe. Of course he’s not safe. But he’s good.”

And as I lie there in my littlest boy’s bed, I rehearse all the ways God’s been good to me lately.

My left arm is tingling from elbow to fingertips, and I try to roll Joshua’s slumbering frame off of mine.

He sighs and offers a belated response to my top-bunk confession.

“Mommy, you don’t have to be afraid  at all. God doesn’t even fit in a box.” He giggles, his words slurring with slumber. “He’s way too big!”

I pull the covers to my son’s chin before I climb down the wooden ladder, and I pause a moment in the doorway to listen to his peaceful, rhythmic breathing.

Then I head back to the comfort of my own bed, and I pray for courage. Courage to toss the box and cling to my great big God.

Ok, friends, my turn to ask the question: What do you fear most? 

 Linking with Lisa-Jo and so many other lovely writers for Five-Minute Friday.  

Today, we’re writing for five minutes about the word “true,”

just pouring our hearts on the page, uncensored, imperfect, and real.  Care to join us?