“Be anxious for nothing,” she whispers to herself. She lies on a cold surgical table awaiting a D&C, a consequence of an unexpected and devastating miscarriage shortly after her first trimester.

“Do not worry,” he mutters under his breath as he paces back and forth in the middle of the night waiting for his daughter to return from a graduation party.

Words of Scripture like these may be near in a moment of anxiety, but the very human reality is this—we are anxious. Of course we’re anxious, particularly in moments like these. In fact, anxiety is a sign that we’re human, we’re alive, we’re alert to the beauty and brokenness of life.

If anxiety were an internal light switch we could turn on and off, we’d save ourselves thousands of dollars a year on self–help remedies, medications, and annoying symptoms like Irritable Bowel Syndrome and stress headaches and sleeplessness and more. It’s not a light switch we can turn off, however. Indeed, as we’ll soon see, it may even be an invitation to a more honest relationship with God and a more wholehearted embrace of the complexity of our own stories.

Jill, who awaited the D&C, was a faithful Christian and an emotionally healthy human being, and still her body responded with a very appropriate and normal anxiety. Her unfinished grief accompanied her into a sterile, cold space in which she felt terribly alone and frightenedly vulnerable given the invasive procedure she’d endure in just moments. These are times, I suspect, in which creation itself groans, longing for the day of restoration (see Rom. 8) when miscarriages will cease, when our mourning will be turned into laughing. Perhaps, creation’s groans are a sign that ours are OK.

Henry, whose daughter was out late, was a great dad and a lifelong follower of Jesus. And he was anxious. Henry was in a car accident in his junior year of high school, and the trauma of it still looms in his body. Loud noises set his body into alarm, raising his heart–rate and causing his eyes to dart to–and–fro. Henry had awakened to a distant siren, unable to sleep soundly amidst his vigilance. His anxiety masks a deep longing for the well–being of his daughter, and for his own peace.

My panic attacks began as early as I can remember. Some people talk about a phenomenon called “The Spotlight Effect,” and I remember its original glaring intrusion into my life. It was my first birthday, and we’d gathered in my backyard on a summer day on Long Island, New York for games and cake. As my friends fixed their eyes on me for the Happy Birthday song, I experienced a surge of anxiety. From that moment on, I had a lurking sensation in my body that the spotlight was on, that others were training their eyes on me, laughing at me, mocking me.

But they’re not, you’d say.

And you’d be right.

But anxiety does not work in a mechanical way, manipulated by a positive thought here or a truth–bomb there. Think about it—the lies we tell ourselves aren’t easily overcome and don’t often make logical sense. Why does a young woman of normal weight look in the mirror and see a “fat slob”? Why does an athlete who finishes second in a national competition feel like a failure? Why does a business person whose presentation is lauded as exceptional ruminate for days after on the one thing he forgot to say?

Think about it—the lies we tell ourselves aren’t easily overcome and don’t often make logical sense.

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When we hear verses from Scripture plucked out of context like “be anxious for nothing” or “do not worry,” our anxiety sometimes might even worsen. Why can’t I stop being so anxious? Why can’t I simply turn it off? Am I not right with God? Unfaithful?

To understand how the Bible addresses anxiety, it might be helpful to meet one of the greatest heroes of Scripture in the midst of one of his most anxious moments.