Mary

Holloman

“I’m afraid of spiders.”

My almost-four-year-old eyed me and then quickly redirected his gaze to his toys. His tone was apologetic.

Benjamin’s fear of spiders wasn’t new to me. For a while, he had recurring nightmares involving spiders — the kind of nightmares that would terrify the most fearless adult.

“I don’t blame you, B,” I said. “I think spiders are creepy, too. And you know, everyone is afraid of something. Except for a special someone. Did you know there is someone who’s not afraid of anything?”

Benjamin smiled at the familiar question. “God!”

And then his eyes narrowed in concentration. “So, what do scary things do when they see God?”

I blinked. When is this kid going to start asking me easier questions?

I imagined a gathering of all the things my children might fear: Spiders. Monsters. Darkness. Storms. Snakes. Strangers. The things that my children shrink back from, or that make them cry out in the night. All things that represent insecurity or the unknown.

And then I imagined those things cowering in fear before a holy and all-powerful God.

I told Benjamin that everything God has created submits to Him and obeys Him. Which means even the biggest, creepiest spider is no match for our God.

“And the coolest part,” I said, “is that if we know God, the Bible says we don’t have to fear Him. He is on our side and promises to protect us and fight for us.”

Benjamin considered my response. “Oh,” he said. “That’s pretty cool.” Satisfied, he went back to his toys.

But I couldn’t get his question out of my head.

What do scary things do when they see God?

I once again pictured the Gathering of Fears. The spiders and snakes are huddled together in one corner. Monsters lurk in the shadows as their rattling breaths pierce the thick silence. Storm clouds churn overhead while strangers with their darting eyes roam nearby.

The mental image was creepy, one that I knew would terrify my son. And then I wondered — what terrifies me?

The Gathering paraded before my mind’s eye again. Only now, in the dark corner where the spiders and snakes once lived, the terror of losing my children hovers. Where monsters once lurked, there is now the anxiety of the unknown. And where storm clouds churned, there is now a thick fog of loneliness and depression that threatens to choke the air from my lungs and the light from my eyes.

What do scary things do when they see God?

My reassuring words to Benjamin were enough for him. I couldn’t help but wonder if they were enough for me.

Romans 8 makes an astonishing claim about God’s relationship with his children:

Red and blue lights flashed in my rearview mirror. My heart sank. My three-year-old couldn’t have been more thrilled.

“A policeman is chasing us!” He squealed with delight.

“Um, well he’s not exactly chasing ...”

“And you’re running away! We’re running away from the policeman!” he shrieked in excitement.

Good grief. How quickly I’d become a fugitive.

I pulled over and dropped my head into my hands. This moment was the perfect summary to a frustrating and difficult week. Just getting the kids into the car that morning had taken a ridiculous amount of time and an unreasonable amount of resistance. My hope was to make it to the gym where my kids could play and I could run away — er, I mean, run on the track. And while lost in my thoughts, my foot got a little too heavy on the pedal and ... well, you know the rest.

The officer walked to my window and asked the expected “Do you know why I pulled you over?” My mind began racing. Should I break out the tears? Tell him how hard my week has been? Claim ignorance about the speed limit?

But instead of a steady stream of rehearsed responses, I quietly answered, “Yes, sir.” I had no excuses. And the officer knew it, too. As he took my license and registration and walked to his car, my son began peppering me with questions.

“Mommy, don’t policemen chase bad guys?” The wheels were turning and he looked slightly concerned. Wonderful. My son has just realized his mother is a criminal.

Moments later, the officer approached the car again. He waved to my son, who was gaping in adoration, and then turned to me. “I’m going to let you off, ma’am. Be careful out there, ok?”

I managed to stammer a “Thank you so much,” and then proceeded to melt into my seat with relief.

“What happened, Mommy? What’s going on?”

I don’t know if it was that officer’s intention, but the mercy he extended to me in that moment was like the gospel message being shouted through a bullhorn. I deserved a ticket. I should have gotten a ticket. I had broken the law. The officer knew it, and I knew it.

And he showed me grace.

I turned and looked at my little man — the same little man who has a dress-up police uniform and loves running around chasing “bad guys” — and started explaining to him what happened. Mommy did something wrong. Mommy deserved to get a ticket. But the kind officer did not give Mommy what she deserved — he showed mercy. And he gave Mommy a second chance, something she didn’t deserve — he showed grace.

And that’s what God has done for us through Jesus Christ.

That night at the dinner table, my son told Daddy, with much passion, about how the police officer “chased Mommy” and “Mommy did the wrong thing, but the policeman showed her grace!”

I think it blew my son’s mind that the policeman — the one who chases bad guys — had actually “chased” Mommy. Logical conclusion? Mommy is a bad guy.

And you know what? He’s right.