“Send me a cute picture of James,” The Sis texted. “I’ll explain later.”

When later came around, which for two mothers of small children is about a week, she told me that she was giving a presentation to some colleagues about seeing the same thing from different perspectives. So in a series of shots placed into Powerpoint slides, she showed The Kid from three vantage points: an image from the CT of his upper spine, a photo of him on his tricycle, and the professional shot we had taken last year of the six of us: The Bro-in-Law, The Sis, The Niece, TK, The Husband and me. Family.

Things look so different depending on where you’re standing.

I remember when The Worst Case Scenario Survival Handbook was published. As a professional student living on loans, I didn’t indulge a purchase, but I did log some time at my local bookstore studying the contents of the manual. Most people found the information about landing a plane and surviving a shark attack entertaining; I stopped just short of taking copious notes. A ball of fear began to form in my stomach as I read each entry: what if this stuff ever happened to me?

Then, a dozen years later, I became a mother and things got much, much worse.

The more doctors we see regarding TK and Neckgate, the more I realize that they so do not have all the answers. Or even that many of them. And the thought that some of the brightest among us–people who walk into a sterile room and cut into children’s brains, like, daily–are often walking blind? Well, you can call my faith a crutch, but we’re all leaning on something. And if all we have is all we can see, then pour me a triple because we’re screwed.

I feel the paralysis of fear looming every day: with every news report of yet another shooter, with every Amber alert blasting from my phone, with the tumble that TK took down the porch’s front steps last week and the absolute worst image that flew into my mind’s eye before I sprang into action and scooped him up. With his neck, we are faced with a set of unknowns, a lack of clarity and–for me–a host of monsters lurking around corners. But who doesn’t face that? It was just easier to feel more in control before this baffling condition arrived on the scene; it didn’t mean we were.

Last week, after a day spent performing Google searches and staring at a screen, that clarity remained elusive and I turned to TH. Navigating the lump in my throat, I said it: “It’s just so hard to love someone who’s so helpless.”

I didn’t stop until now to wonder if that’s how He feels.

Because here’s the truth: I am so, so afraid. Of shooters. Of kidnappers. Of cancer. Of trampolines. Of organized sports. Of home invaders. Of the Botox injection he is scheduled to receive. If I sat here and continued the list, this post would never end (instead of just feeling like it never ends). 

Fear does not only exist in this dojo, it is threatening to overtake it.

But here’s something else I’m afraid of, and here in our suburban home in a relatively safe area, it’s much more likely to cross my path and I will do all I can to avoid it: I’m afraid of teaching TK to be fearful. That is one of my tendencies that I just cannot pass on. So what is there to do?

I’ve come to crises of faith–I mean big ones, like, am-I-going-to-stay-signed-up-or-cancel my-subscription forever kind of crises–a couple of times in my life. And the question for me has never been whether God is real, but rather, whether I can handle how real he is. When life exposes my deep fearfulness and distrust, when it reveals just how much of a problem I have with a God whose power, because it exceeds mine, can be seen on my worst day as a threat to my happiness (He’s not safe, but he’s good? Let’s go back to the “not safe” part)–what then? And I realize that there is always, will always be, a part of me that bucks up under any authority but my own. That is constantly hedging my bets. And I’m so tired of this mutinous segment of my heart. I’m so damn tired of being afraid.

So I read, and I know it’s true: that “anything less than gratitude and trust is practical atheism.” That thanksgiving is what pounds the nails in the coffin of fear. And like Mother Teresa, and then my SS said, sometimes we pray for clarity when what we need is trust.

He is calling me to somewhere deeper than I’ve been yet. And when I think about everywhere I’ve been with Him so far, I know that I have never looked back and wished that I had trusted Him less.

So faith may be a crutch, because it has always held me up. And a crutch can beat the hell out of fear.

I have to laugh at a verse I come across from the time Paul was about to be shipwrecked while following his faith. He was at the mercy of other people and they made a bad decision. Not fair! my inner judge yells. Paul says: “I believe God will do exactly what he told me,” Paul said. Oh, good, I think. Then this happens: “But we’re going to shipwreck on some island or other.” WTF?

Not safe, but good.

Last week I read to TK’s class. When I arrived, TK was just waking up from a nap and he was in a craptacular mood. The end result was me sitting in a chair reading from Eight Silly Monkeys while the toddlers sat silent, faces rapt. All except one: my progeny, who screamed at my feet. “This is not how I saw this going,” I deadpanned to his teachers. Is parenting, ever? Is life? And then another day, at work, a place where I take care of other people’s children and fight worry over my own, Finding Nemo plays from a screen. I remember that Nemo makes it home in the end, but I have forgotten the last moment of the film, and I watch it now. The final shot is of Nemo swimming away from his dad, who sighs, “Bye, Nemo.”

Love is letting go. And sacrifice. And choosing to believe is something bigger than the scariest of what I see–in something more than anything I can see. All of these choices that the world sees as extremes, and they are the currency of a kingdom with a view beyond what I can imagine.