run.

Our families were camping. I asked to go on a walk. I was about thirteen, so my parents said yes, as long as I stuck to the buddy system. Two of my little sisters' friends—younger girls—asked to come too. We took Sophie, my little schnauzer with the slow stride.

The pine trees grew tall, leaning over and covering the sky above the road. It was an East Texas State Park, after all, known for its trees. But I remember that the trees seemed to make dusk even darker, and our hike along the road quickly became a walk in the night.

I'd seen the park map and knew the road eventually circled, and would bring us back to our campsite in time. So I thought. The girls started to get spooked. The woods were creepy at night. We walked and walked, following the yellow stripes on the park's main road.

Headlights ahead. A station wagon pulls up next to us. The man in the driver's seat doesn't speak. He leers. The girls and I huddle close, scooping up Sophie in our arms.

"Run." A voice in my mind told me (which I now recognize—The Holy Spirit), though a small part of my brain whispered that running would be rude and downright unfriendly.  

"Run," I said aloud. We took off. 
 

I glanced behind us. The man spun his car around. He would see us with his headlights. I grabbed the girls' hands. We jumped into a pile of bushes and brush, cowering low to the ground. I watched the man's car—less than a hundred feet away.

He cut the engine and turned off the lights. Waiting for us to move?

We tried not to breathe, afraid he'd hear us. I strained my ears, couldn't tell if what I heard was him getting out of the car.

It's interesting to me now, remembering that night, how what I remember most is emotion. I remember sending God a panicked prayer. And I remember what came after—while I was running—a deep, crippling fear that God was not going to help.

What if He left us? What if He…won't help?

Years later, this story fits with what I read this morning from John Piper: "…let us trust God for great things in our little faith, and let us not be paralyzed by what is left to be done…"

My first reaction had been despair—and that still rings true for me now. Asking for God for help is easy; asking without a suspicion that He will abandon me is another matter entirely. 

David fought with this same suspicion. In Psalm 42 he laments that God is far away. Fear of abandonment cuts like wounds deep in his bones. His enemies taunt, asking, "Where is your God?" 

But the Psalm concludes in a re-statement of faith. At the end of Psalm 42, God has not yet shown His Presence—but David continues to believe He will:

"Why are you cast down, O my soul,
and why are you in turmoil within me?
Hope in God; for I shall again praise Him,
my salvation and my God."

I remember plunging into the woods, running until my lungs felt like they were going to split. One of the girls and I took turns carrying Sophie, whose short legs couldn't keep up. We kept parallel with the road, tried to walk close to the trees where it was darkest.

It wasn't long before we saw the glow of little pop-up campers. Apprehensive, we stuck close to each other, rounding the corner to the camper labeled "Park Host," near the ranger's station. 

"Will they help us, God? Do you want us to keep running?" 

I don't remember a reply, but it didn't take long for the Park Host to find our parents, and suddenly our long run became just a Stranger Danger story to tell our younger siblings. But whenever there's danger, even these days, the emotion still rises.

What if He's left us? 

But when I ask, "When has ever He left us?" I pull up no memories. We have never for a moment been alone. 

"…let us trust God for great things in our little faith, and let us not be paralyzed by what is left to be done…"

If there is work left to be done, it is not because He has forgotten; it's that He has chosen to wait, or to show His faithfulness and glory in another way.

The commission is to scoop up our mustard seeds and panicked prayers and place them in the palm of God. Because our faith's abundance is not what will win the day. It is His faithfulness, stronger than the fear which cramps our running legs; faithfulness that swoops us up and guards us behind and before.

He is the Giver of Grace. And His kindness doesn't depend on the fearlessness of our running. Thank goodness.