When I think of brave, I picture someone like Ellen MacArthur, circling the globe in her tiny boat. Or Ranulph Fiennes; ploughing through elephants and cutting off his own frost-bitten extremities. Brave is Bruce Willis in a stained string vest. It’s jumping in front of a truck to save a stranger. Brave is whoops, swirls and explosions. It’s obvious and it’s unmistakable. You got it – or you don’t. And sadly, I don’t.
I’d like to be brave. But I’m not. I’m scared – of almost everything. Relationships. Loneliness. Wasting my life. Opening letters. Taking risks. Letting others down. Making choices. Taking responsibility. Saying yes. Saying no. Commitment. Wasps.
I’ve got more questions than I have answers. I don’t have what it takes – for this evening or this morning or the very next hour. I’m not enough – for myself or the people I love. I let them down. I’m weak and overwhelmed and suddenly tired. I’m not brave – but I need to be. So I cry out again for help. And He meets me – again.
Those who live in the shelter of the Most High
will find rest in the shadow of the Almighty.
This I declare about the Lord:
He alone is my refuge, my place of safety;
He is my God, and I trust him.