Little Wren Writes

Panic is remarkably physical.

I wish it weren’t. I would much prefer anxiety to submit a polite written request.

“Dear Renee,
Just letting you know that I have some concerns regarding the current situation. Please find attached a detailed list for your consideration.
Kind regards,
Your nervous system.”

That I could work with. Instead, panic tends to arrive by pulling the fire alarm. Heart racing. Chest tightening. Hands shaking. Breathing suddenly requiring far more conscious effort than breathing should ever require. Every muscle alert. Thoughts moving too quickly.

Body screaming: SOMETHING IS WRONG.

And sometimes the strangest part is…nothing is.
At least, nothing is wrong right now. There is no bear. No attacker. No emergency. No immediate threat. I’m sitting in a perfectly ordinary room. Yet my body has apparently received different information.

I don’t think panic is simply “worrying too much.” Sometimes my mind knows I’m safe while my body remains completely unconvinced. I can tell myself: “You’re okay.” My nervous system replies: SOURCE? I can breathe slowly. Put my feet on the ground. Squeeze my weighted lobster. Remind myself where I am. Go through an endless amount of psychological exercises…

Name:
5 things I can see.
4 things I can hear.
3 things I can feel.
2 things I can smell.
1 thing I can taste.

And I can still feel frightened. That’s one of the most frustrating things about panic. You can’t always reason your way out of it. Because sometimes your body is responding to things your mind isn’t consciously thinking about at all. A memory. A sensation. A place. A sound. A feeling of being trapped. Something that resembles something that once wasn’t safe.

The alarm goes off before I’ve even worked out why. And once the alarm is sounding, everything feels like evidence that the alarm was right.

For a long time, I have felt embarrassed by it. Sometimes people who don’t understand panic have tried to be helpful but have ultimately increased the shame. “Just take a deep breath and move on’. ‘You’re just overreacting’.
I know they often mean well. But what I wish people would understand is that I am often not sitting there enjoying it or wanting it to continue. I’m drowning in things like ‘Surely I should be able to control my own body. Surely if I knew I was safe, I should feel safe. Surely if I trusted God enough, I should be calmer.’

That last one is particularly cruel. Because anxiety already makes you afraid. Adding spiritual guilt just makes you afraid and ashamed. A delightful combination. Not.

I honestly can not believe that panic is evidence of weak faith. Bodies remember things. Brains learn danger. Nervous systems try desperately to protect us. Sometimes they just become a little overenthusiastic or misguided. Mine occasionally behaves like an extremely committed smoke detector that has detected toast. The alarm is real but the fire isn’t always. Learning the difference takes time.

But then there is peace.

Peace is another word Christians use a lot. “God gave me such peace about it.” I’ve heard that sentence countless times. I’ve probably said it myself in some way. And sometimes that genuinely happens. Sometimes prayer settles something in us. Sometimes clarity comes. Sometimes our breathing slows. Sometimes the noise inside quietens. Those moments are gifts.

But I’ve also prayed while panicking…and yet continued panicking. I’ve asked Jesus for peace while my heart was still racing. I’ve quoted Scripture while my hands were still shaking. I’ve known, intellectually and spiritually, that God was with me…while my body continued insisting that the apocalypse was approximately four minutes away.

So what does peace mean then? Is God’s peace only present when I feel peaceful? I don’t think so.

There’s a story in Mark 4 that I’ve heard since I was a child and is one of my favourite to teach in Kids Church.

Jesus and His disciples are crossing the Sea of Galilee. A furious storm comes up. Waves break over the boat. The disciples are terrified. And Jesus is asleep.

I’ve always found that detail slightly hilarious. Not resting His eyes. Not calmly observing the situation. Asleep. On a cushion. There is an actual storm. Experienced fishermen think they’re going to die. Water is coming into the boat. And Jesus is having a nap.

Eventually they wake Him and ask: “Teacher, don’t you care if we drown?” That question gets me. Not: “Jesus, could You please calm the storm?”

But: “Don’t You care?”

Because fear has a way of turning circumstances into conclusions about God. The storm is bad therefore God has abandoned me. I am frightened therefore He isn’t close. He hasn’t stopped this therefore He doesn’t care. I’ve asked versions of those question many, many times. Maybe most of us have.

Jesus gets up. Rebukes the wind. Says to the waves, “Quiet! Be still!” And the storm stops. Complete calm. It’s a beautiful story.

But here’s the uncomfortable thing:

Jesus doesn’t always calm the storm when I ask Him to.

Sometimes He does. Sometimes circumstances change. Sometimes the phone call brings good news. Sometimes the danger passes. Sometimes the thing we have begged God to fix is actually fixed.

And sometimes…
the waves keep coming.
The diagnosis remains.
The relationship still ends.
The grief is still there in the morning.
The panic doesn’t disappear halfway through the prayer.

So I don’t think the promise of Christianity can simply be that Jesus will calm every storm. He won’t. At least not yet. The deeper comfort of that story is something I missed for years. Before Jesus calmed the storm he was already in the boat. The disciples were terrified. The waves were enormous. The boat was filling. And Jesus was still there. His presence didn’t depend on their ability to feel safe. Their panic didn’t make Him leave.

I think I’m beginning to understand peace differently. Peace isn’t always calm. Sometimes peace is presence. Sometimes peace is knowing that even while my body is frightened, I am not alone. Sometimes peace is another person sitting beside me until my breathing slows. Sometimes it’s a hand reminding me where I am. Sometimes it’s Scripture I’ve known for years suddenly becoming something I need rather than something I can merely recite. Sometimes it’s simply whispering, “Jesus.” – not an impressive prayer. Barely even a sentence. Just a name – and trusting that He knows the rest.

One of the names Scripture gives Jesus is Prince of Peace. I love that more now than I used to. Because Christianity doesn’t ultimately offer me a technique for becoming calm. It offers me a person. Peace is not something I have to manufacture. It comes from belonging to someone who is not frightened by the things that frighten me.

Jesus is not panicking. What a great comfort! When my thoughts are racing, His aren’t. When I can’t see beyond the next ten minutes, He can. When my body sounds every alarm it possesses, He has not lost control. When I don’t know what to do next, He isn’t scrambling for a plan. The Prince of Peace remains peaceful.

And He remains with me.

There is another moment near the end of John’s Gospel that I love. Jesus knows what is coming. Betrayal. Arrest. The cross. His disciples are about to have their entire world ripped apart.

And He says: “Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you.”

What a strange time to promise peace. Nothing about the next few days is going to look peaceful. There will be violence. Fear. Grief. Confusion. Death.

Jesus isn’t promising them pleasant circumstances.
He’s giving them His peace inside terrible circumstances.

“Do not let your hearts be troubled and do not be afraid.”
Not because nothing frightening will happen. Something frightening absolutely will. But because the cross will not be the end.

I think I used to imagine peace as a still lake. No wind. No waves. Everything perfectly reflected on the surface. I’d still quite like that, to be clear. Sounds lovely.

But these days, I think peace sometimes looks more like a boat in a storm. Waves still hitting. Disciples still frightened.

Jesus still there.

And maybe that’s enough. Not always enough to make my heart immediately slow down. Not always enough to stop my hands shaking. Not always enough to make the fear disappear. But enough to remind me:

My panic is real. It is not prophetic.

Feeling unsafe does not always mean I am unsafe. Feeling abandoned does not mean I have been abandoned. Feeling afraid does not mean God has lost control. My feelings deserve compassion. They don’t always deserve authority. I’m learning to be kinder to my frightened body.

Instead of: “Stop it. This is ridiculous.”
I’m trying: “You’re frightened. Let’s work out what you need.”

Sometimes I need to breathe.
Sometimes I need to move.
Sometimes I need a hug.
Sometimes I need quiet.
Sometimes I need another person.
Sometimes I need to remind myself: “This feeling will pass.”

And sometimes I need to pray while doing all of those things.
Not because grounding techniques are somehow less spiritual than prayer. God made my body too. Caring for it is not a failure of faith.

I still want the kind of peace that calms storms. Of course I do. I still pray: “Jesus, please make this stop.” I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that prayer. But I’m also learning another one.

“Jesus, if the storm doesn’t stop yet, stay with me in the boat.”

And the extraordinary thing is that He already is.

Maybe that’s the peace I’m learning. Not the absence of panic. Not perfect control over my body. Not a life where nothing frightening ever happens again.

The presence of Jesus in the middle of it.
Peace with a racing heart.
Peace with shaking hands.
Peace that sometimes needs another person beside me.
Peace that breathes slowly.
Peace that asks for help.
Peace that doesn’t always feel very peaceful at first. But peace nonetheless.

Because the storm is not proof that Jesus has left the boat.

And my fear is not proof that He has stopped being the Prince of Peace.

“Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you. I do not give to you as the world gives.” 
John 14:27