Anguish. Life is full of anguish. It's also full of mountain top experiences, but those we have no trouble with, can wave them away. It's the valleys we do battle with, that we struggle against. It's when you put into action a plan you knew was absolutely certain, and things are falling apart. It's having lived all your life with health so perfect that doctors were people other people went to, and now you're facing a life-threatening illness.

Fear. Anguish and fear must be first cousins or something. Here fear is, creeping up on you at midnight, when the whole house is asleep. Making you toss and turn, as you consider all the potential catastrophes that must surely be on their way. Making your dreams dark and troubled, waking you in a sweat. Convincing you there's no way out, stealing reason. A formidable enemy.

"Fear not [there is nothing to fear], for I am with you; do not look around you in terror {and} be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen {and} harden you to difficulties, yes, I will help you; yes, I will hold you up {and} retain you with My [victorious] right hand of rightness {and} justice." (Isaiah 41:10 AMP).

Fear not, God? I have never faced so much trouble before. Never been faced with homelessness. Never been threatened with an illness that may kill me. Or, maybe: You remember what happened last time. I really need this job, and my last ten interviews led nowhere. You remember how hungry we went for a spell that time. My last scans and tests came out positive. How can You tell me not to fear?

And yet, You do. Your promise is, surely You will help me. That You will uphold me. Not promising me You won't let the trouble happen, or that You will magically spirit me out of this situation. But promising that You will be here, and SURELY You will help. I can't claim to understand why You don't just take the trouble away. Because, You know, God, if I had Power Ranger powers like You do, I'd just like zap everything away. Swoop in and lift the mountain in one hand like Superman, and pull me out of the rubble I'm trapped in at the bottom.

But that's not how You work. I don't understand Your ways, but You promise to be with me, to help and uphold me, and ask me to trust You. It seems mad to me to do so when the trouble seems more real and immediate. I guess that's what this faith thing is all about.