Maybe you didn't need reminding, but I most certainly did as late last night, for the first time since this corona virus made it's hideous debut, fear suddenly wrapped it's icy death grip around my heart. That fear felt paralyzing...not just fear about the virus, but fear for all the people I love, fear for dear friends fighting cancer, fear for another friend's precious baby fighting infection, fear for all the sons and daughters trying desperately to travel back to this U.S., fear for the world's weakest and most vulnerable, fear of all those terrifying "what if's."
So perhaps I'm only preaching to myself, but just in case anyone else out there needs a little shot of strengthening courage, here's what I'm preaching: "Courage, dear heart."
It's remarkable how God used those three little words to minister to my wildly swerving emotions. And they've been on auto-repeat in my mind.
They come from one of my favorite passages from one of my favorite writers--C.S. Lewis--in the book, The Voyage of the Dawn Treader. Good old Clive Staples knew a thing or two about danger and fear. He fought and was injured in World War I and then lived through the terrors of World War II in England. So I'm heeding his God-inspired imagination.
Let me set the scene. Lucy and Edmund are among the crew of the Dawn Treader as they sail across the ocean in search of lost loved ones. But disaster strikes as they approach and then are trapped in the everlasting darkness of an island of nightmares. No matter what they do, they cannot escape and all hope is lost. Here's where the book picks up--
"Drinian’s hand shook on the tiller and a line of cold sweat ran down his face. The same idea was occurring to everyone on board. 'We shall never get out, never get out,' moaned the rowers. 'He’s steering us wrong. We’re going round and round in circles. We shall never get out.' The stranger, who had been lying in a huddled heap on the deck, sat up and burst out into a horrible screaming laugh.
'Never get out!' he yelled. 'That’s it. Of course. We shall never get out. What a fool I was to have thought they would let me go as easily as that. No, no, we shall never get out.'
Lucy leant her head on the edge of the fighting top and whispered, 'Aslan, Aslan, if ever you loved us at all, send us help now.' The darkness did not grow any less, but she began to feel a little—a very, very little—better. 'After all, nothing has really happened to us yet,' she thought.
' Look!' cried Rynelf’s voice hoarsely from the bows. There was a tiny speck of light ahead, and while they watched a broad beam of light fell from it upon the ship. It did not alter the surrounding darkness, but the whole ship was lit up as if by searchlight. Caspian blinked, stared round, saw the faces of his companions all with wild, fixed expressions. Everyone was staring in the same direction: behind everyone lay his black, sharply-edged shadow.
Lucy looked along the beam and presently saw something in it. At first it looked like a cross, then it looked like an aeroplane, then it looked like a kite, and at last with a whirring of wings it was right overhead and was an albatross. It circled three times round the mast and then perched for an instant on the crest of the gilded dragon at the prow. It called out in a strong sweet voice what seemed to be words though no one understood them. After that it spread its wings, rose, and began to fly slowly ahead, bearing a little to starboard. Drinian steered after it not doubting that it offered good guidance.
But no one except Lucy knew that as it circled the mast it had whispered to her, 'Courage, dear heart,' and the voice, she felt sure, was Aslan’s, and with the voice a delicious smell breathed in her face.
In a few moments the darkness turned into a greyness ahead, and then, almost before they dared to begin hoping, they had shot out into the sunlight and were in the warm, blue world again. And all at once everybody realized that there was nothing to be afraid of and never had been. They blinked their eyes and looked about them. The brightness of the ship herself astonished them: they had half expected to find that the darkness would cling to the white and the green and the gold in the form of some grime or scum. And then first one, and then another, began laughing."
Fear doesn't have the last word. Sacrifice does. Love does. Courage does. Our Jesus--who at one point said to His terrified disciples when they, too, were overcome with fear on a storm-tossed boat, "Take heart; it is I. Do not be afraid." (Mt.14:27)--does.
And in case you forget that, look at the cross. Look at the One who confronted the worst possible fear, the most horrific imaginable pain, the most terrible suffering--not just physical but, far worse, spiritual--and willingly, even joyfully "for the joy that was set before Him" endured it all for us. He bore it all for us on the cross and rose victorious over every fear, every sin, every failure, every disease, every death, every betrayal, every heartbreak. And now He reigns in glory forever and ever.
And that's why, no matter what comes, we can declare to one another and to ourselves--Courage, dear heart. The next time our fears began whispering to us all the ugly "what if's," let's answer with His Words to us--"Take heart; it is I. Do not be afraid."
Courage, dear heart. We have Jesus, the conquering Lion of Judah, with us. He's promised to never leave us or forsake us. And since He's with us, our rolling, rocking boat will make it safely all the way to His heavenly shore. Not somehow, but triumphantly.
Let's choose His unfailing word over our ever-vacillating fear. Courage, dear heart. He's here.
To God be the glory.
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