Hope in the Midst of Anxiety

Chapter 7 With Open Hands

Together, we’ve explored the reality that anxiety is a normal human experience, a human experience that God entered into through Jesus. Because of this, we can find God more near to us than our very breath if anxiety has prompted us to cope in ways that take us away. Indeed, one of the great joys on the other side of a painful burden is discovering God was with you all along. As the Psalmist writes, “When anxiety was great within me, your consolation brought me joy” (Psalm 94:19, NIV).

At the same time, anxiety can be a scary and even pervasively burdensome experience. Sometimes in our anxiety we feel crazy, weak, faithless, even sinful. One woman said, “If I were a real Christian, I wouldn’t feel so anxious. God must think I’m so helpless.” I hope you’ve seen that God sees us in our helplessness and is compassionate.

I recall a helpful image for prayer that has guided my own journey with anxiety and with God. It comes from the late priest and psychologist Henri Nouwen. The image is of controlling clenched fists and surrendered open hands. Allow me to illustrate.

When I was young, we’d get an allowance and I could hardly wait for the ice cream truck to come around to spend some of it. On one occasion, I spent a few bucks on Fun Dip, Spree candies, and an Italian ice, collecting my change and goodies in a hurry so that I could race to my front stoop and enjoy them. But within moments, a couple of buddies sat next to me eyeing my sugary treasure. Soon they began grabbing. I held tight. I wrapped my hands around them so tightly that I thought my knuckles would pop out. My fists were fiercely clenched, and I wasn’t about to open my hands.

Now what if I said that I’m almost fifty years old and I’m still clenching my hands tightly around things? My hope is that you’d relate. In my anxiety, I control, clench, and grasp all in an effort to make sure my hold is good and tight and that I don’t lose anything. Maybe you do too. We’re only human.

But as we grow up, we discover that letting go is not only more lifegiving, but essential to our growth and maturation. This year I let go as my daughter left for college. I was anxious, but it was not time to hold on but to release her. This year my wife Sara and I let go as we said goodbye to her parents who passed within months of each other. With every act of letting go, we discover the joy of trust, and quite possibly recognize that our attempts to control were futile in the first place.

Jill, who we met in the first chapter, eventually let go of her grief and anger, saying goodbye to her unborn baby. As she released her child into the hands of Jesus, inexplicable tears of grief and joy filled her. Henry, who we also met in the first chapter, needed to do the work of exploring his traumatic past in order to let go of the besetting worry that kept him in a constant hypervigilant state. By remembering his story and opening himself to a new one, he found new freedom in life and in parenting. Cynthia let go of an old belief that her fears were wrong and sinful, and moved open–handedly into new and courageous relationships with others, discovering delight in each new connection. Each of us will recognize things we hold tightly, motivated by the anxious need to control. Just as we discovered how Hezekiah’s ambassadors tried to manage the anxiety of imminent invasion, so we try to manage the many wild contingencies of our lives. The writer of Ecclesiastes calls these anxious efforts “chasing after wind.” We’ll never really catch up.

And that’s when we discover real joy. We can never catch up. To be human is to be vulnerable, fallible, never quite as in control as we’d imagine despite our silly attempts. If the gospel is true, we can’t fix ourselves. In reality, there is a lot in our world we can’t control. Sometimes it’s helpful for me to go outside on a dark night and look up at a starlit sky just to recognize how small and dependent I am.

“Do not worry,” Jesus says. And maybe in those words, he’s not trying to shame us or set some impossible expectation before us. Maybe, he’s like a dad whispering to his daughter, “Don’t worry sweetie,” when she’s scared of the dark. Maybe it’s like a mom holding her little boy when he awakens from a bad dream. Maybe God’s invitation is light and easy, something we relax into rather than figuring out. Maybe, just maybe, it’s his way of saying, “I’ve got this.”

And so in the quiet and alone with God, we open our hands. In the presence of a safe therapist, we open our hands. In the face of our most anxious moment, we open our hands. In the company of a good friend, we open our hands. Because of Jesus, we open our hands. The anxiety may not magically go away, but through it we may discover the one who says over and again, “I am with you.” And maybe, that’s just enough.