The little girl closed her eyes, feeling the curve of the couch cushions that supported her, sagging and clammy like pancakes that are left out all day. Sleep tugged at her. Then, the flick of a shadow. Her eyes flipped open, and she froze.
I still remember that night, remember the abrupt introduction to fear I experienced. I recall my imagination racing, tripping over itself as sleepless hours trudged on. Years afterwards, I asked my mom about that night. She claims she never saw anything, but I was convinced that I saw a black hand slowly emerge from a potted peace plant resting on a side table at the foot of our blue upholstered couch.
We moved often when I was growing up. Every two or three years we would pack up and haul off to another Midwest state for my Dad's residency or training to become a doctor. My family was stable through all of this; I was not. I was an only child for six years until the addition of three siblings. I had a difficult time discovering and sustaining friendships because of my selfishness in my only-child years and my isolation that resulted from being homeschooled. My mom and dad were my constants, my supportive pillars, but another move and middle school toppled my temple with Samson-like force. I rarely strayed from the confines of my stable bubble, which propelled me to depression because of my deep yearning for friendship. Though my relationships with both my mom and dad were very strong, I felt trapped like I had a perpetual itch to traverse beyond the boundaries of my dwelling and was unable to do so. My parents decided it would be wise to enroll me in a few classes at the local middle school for social contact. I was terrified and feared failure. From then on, my initial reaction to any new experience was one of panicky anxiety. A few years prior to this time, I developed a nervous habit of pulling my hair out. Heightened by additional stress, my destructive habit became obsessive. My eyelashes and eyebrows disappeared, and my hair thinned and became bald in different areas. I fell deeper into self-loathing sometimes wanting to die, always wishing to be beautiful or disappear. In my insecurity and sheltered naivety, I continued to struggle finding like-minded friends or any friends at all. Fear grew discretely, hiding behind my broken awkwardness.
I remember a girl inviting me to a Cardinals baseball game. I accepted, giddy that she wanted me to accompany her, but panic hit me like a meat hook, as I realized that I was going to drive two hours away to watch a game in a stadium with thousands of fans with a girl I barely knew. My parents would not be there to protect me. What if I got lost? What if I got sick? I tried to go to sleep, but the panic was overwhelming. I broke out in tears and ran sobbing to my dad who was reading his email. I pleaded, begged him to call and tell her I could not go. He tried to assure me that I was over-reacting. Short of breath with tears cascading from my eyes I begged and begged. He remained indifferent, knew I needed to go. I slunk helplessly onto a chair, exhausted and shaking as waves of nausea rose and fell over my body. The next morning my friend and her family arrived to pick me up at my house. I took a deep, shaky breath, hugged my parents, fought tears at the thought of never seeing them again, went to the game, and quite enjoyed myself.
Middle school finally withdrew. I flushed depression and ADHD medication with it. My hair grew back and I became relatively normal. We moved, once again, and I took the opportunity to polish up my first impressions and project Confidant Karin. Regardless of my fresh canvass, old problems lurked silently beneath the smooth surface of my heart.
Darkness. I only knew I was not alone for the bold voices offering up intent prayers to the Lord or explaining a fresh vision or word from the Holy Spirit. Shack Church. Twenty teen and college youths crammed into a metal thirteen by twelve house we lovingly dubbed "the shack." Lights off and hearts surrendered, we were a growing bunch of dripping passionates zealous for the heart of the Lord. "Guys, when he was just praying, I saw a demon behind him. It's gone now." With these words from a young woman in our group, I was introduced to the other half of the spirit realm: the forces of darkness. I panicked. Shaking, sobbing in the blackness. I was not even fully aware of what had set me off. It took several minutes of prayer from faithful friends to give me back my composure. I was freshly alarmed. Months later, sitting at home alone, my lights on in my bedroom and completely safe, the sensation hit me again. I could feel them around me. Demons. I was in the middle of my floor, too frozen to even crawl into bed. I just cried and rocked back and forth, sensing that I was surrounded, feeling very alone and more fearful than I had in a long time.
Whenever I confessed my growing distaste and struggle with my problem, I felt shrugged off by all "normal" people. They always told me I was too emotional, that I "just needed to trust God." I did trust God. When fear came, I would speak his promises to myself, and pray scripture, but it did not remove the fear. I knew there must be something terribly wrong with me. I shut down and continued to cry out to the Lord.
One of the hard parts about being a Christian is struggling with something, knowing that you have been given the authority to overcome it and still struggling. I knew the verses. I knew the Lord was with me and had not given me a spirit of fear. I knew my fears were irrational, that I had authority over fear and demons. Yet time and time again the hairy monster returned. It was not until a couple months ago that I was reminded of some important equipment I had been ignorant of using. Acknowledging my stronghold, I sought out the wisdom and prayer of a Godly couple I respected and trusted. I explained my problem and desire to be set free. The lady responded gently, "We had a friend who underwent a similar situation--feelings of vulnerability to the kingdom of darkness. She began to put on her armor verbally and wear it by faith. I would encourage you to do that whenever you get up in the morning, and when you're feeling susceptible to fear. We'll also pray for you."
It had never occurred to me that I needed to put on my armor. It made perfect sense. I was in spiritual warfare, and the enemy had an open target. Yes, I had authority and ammunition, but I was not wearing adequate protection.
A few nights later I sensed fear skulking around my heart. I began to pray against it in Jesus' name and prepared for war. Remembering what had been suggested to me, I began to summarize Ephesians 6:13-17. Lord, I equip my feet with the readiness that comes with the gospel of peace; I put on the belt of truth and the breastplate of righteousness. I put on the helmet of salvation, take up the shield of faith, and unsheathe the sword of the spirit.
I slid my cell-phone open and squinted as my eyes adjusted to the blinding light, "9:53." I lay awake as I had so many nights before recounting the events of my day. It was dark--very dark. I tried waving my hand in front of my face, scared myself a little and chuckled at my childish foolishness. My mind skipped over to the night's condensed blackness. What was lurking unseen in my room? There it came again, my old foe Fear. I strapped on my armor and began to pray. I was not paralyzed! I turned over in bed. That wasn't so bad. I silently gave thanks to the Lord for his goodness rejoicing for this small victory. I noticed redemption slowly replacing old habits with freedom. "You are good," I whispered as the peaceful heaviness of sleep accompanied the joy in my heart. "...put your hope in the Lord, for with the Lord is unfailing love and with him is full redemption.." (Psalms 130:7)
