As we take a turn into the New Year with fear and anxiety high in the country, I am beginning to see why the Lord's justice is the one thing holding a lot of Christians together right now. One of my favorite Bible verses is 1 John 1:9: “If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just and will forgive us our sins and purify us from all unrighteousness.” This verse has been stuck on my mind for the last few months, especially the phrase, “He is faithful and just.” I've been wondering constantly why God has kept that phrase on my mind, emphasizing His justice over, and over, and over again.

On a personal level, I have been struggling with anxiety for a while. I worry far too much about things I cannot change or know. Trust me, I've read the verses; I know His commands: Matthew 11:28, “Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest”; 1 Peter 5:7, “Cast all your anxiety on him because he cares for you”; Matthew 6:25, “Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink; or about your body, what you will wear.” There are a hundred more verses from where those came. That does not mean it is easy not to worry.

I've been wrestling with God, trying to rationalize my fear, and the fear of the world, saying, “We have good reason,” and, “I've asked You to take this and You haven't, so maybe I'm supposed to be anxious?” Yeah, I know, it sounds ridiculous. I scoured the Bible, trying to find a way to reconcile my anxiety with a fearless gospel. My efforts have returned void. I have found no room for worry in a relationship with Jesus. So why then have I not been able to shrug it off? I thought it was supposed to be simple, but just like any sin, anxiety makes it hard to walk away, convincing you that it is comfortable and sustainable and normal. We have normalized anxiety like we have normalized pornography addictions, alcoholism, and substance abuse. Worry is just as much a sin as anything else, yet our culture continues to buy into the idea that it is just a fact of life, and we can never change.

Now, don't get me wrong. I understand fully the weight of an anxiety disorder. For some, it is a chemical imbalance in the brain; for others it's nervous system damage in the spine. I am in the latter camp, one who cannot be helped by medication and can only learn to cope. At least, that's what I was told. I was told “coping” would be my only option, as if I had any control over my life at all, as if I could lean on my own understanding, as if I could walk through life all on my own.

So, I tried to learn to cope. I tried to breathe and meditate. I prayed. I thought I was leaning into Jesus. I thought by praying and telling God about the things happening in my life and asking Him to take my anxiety away, it would magically happen. I thought He would take all, and I would surrender nothing. I thought I was surrendering my worries to Him by telling Him about them, but the worries never went away. I thought God was withholding something from me, or I was doing something wrong. I turned to “likes” on Instagram pictures, and comments on my newest “status” for validation. I turned to things I should have never turned to for momentary pleasures only to be let down over, and over, and over again. I wrestled with God, living in sin yet not understanding why He wasn't taking anything away. I lived in a cycle of worry and rationality, constantly swinging back and forth, not knowing how I would react to anything. I stopped taking care of myself entirely, forgetting to eat and barely sleeping, sustaining myself enough to get good grades (couldn't let the perfectionist in me down, right?) and somewhat maintain the friendships I had. Then I hit Christmas break and something changed.

I had a very good friend tell me one day, “I don't know how to tell you things because it's like there's two of you: the rational you and the irrational you. I'm afraid you're going to break if I give you any bad news.” I hit a wall that day. A nice, padded wall, with a fluffy ceiling and floor. I had quite a long talk with Jesus.

Over the last few months, I've been praying and reading, asking God for help, asking Him to give the instruction manual for giving Him my anxiety, begging Him to fix me, make me better. I had the instruction manual the whole time, mind you, but I'd been disregarding the Bible for what it actually is. As I found myself begging God for help for weeks on end, every question was answered with one feeling, one phrase that kept popping up whenever I picked up my Bible:

“I am just.”

I wanted to scream at God, tell Him, “That's not an answer, that's not what I asked. What does that have to do with anything.”

And again He'd answer in some way or another, “I am just.”

This went on for half a semester. After hearing my friend say what he said, I changed my attitude with Jesus, praying something like, “God, I'm out of options. I don't want to lose this relationship, I don't want to lose all the good things you have for me, and I want to change. What do I need to do?” And a thought popped into my head.

“You've been reading a selfish gospel.”

I wondered what in the world that could mean. And then I realized, all this time, I've been reading God's word to benefit me, find myself, help me, when I should have been reading to learn more about God's character, hear His voice, learn His rhythm. That was the thing I was craving most, but I'd been filling that hole with lies and sin, all while trying to find that one verse that would apply to my situations, one that would justify the way I'd been living.

I opened my Bible straight to Ezekiel 36, and all I kept gleaning was that the God I serve is a just God. I flipped to Proverbs, and the first verse I saw, Proverbs 1:23, read, “Turn to me when I warn you. I will generously pour out my spirit to you. I will make my words known to you.” Later, in Proverbs 2:6-8 it says, “The Lord gives wisdom...He is a shield for those who walk in integrity in order to guard those on the paths of justice...then you will understand what is right and just and fair.” I wound up in Ecclesiastes 11:9-10 where the author tells the reader to have fun while they are young but remember they will, “give an account for all these things when He judges everyone,” later saying in chapter 12, “Remember your creator when someone is afraid of heights or the dangers along the road...fear God and keep His commands...God will certainly judge everything that is done.”

I came to the conclusion that this is what He'd been telling me all semester: He is a perfectly just, perfectly good God. And as I sat there, still wondering why this mattered, God made two things very clear to me. One, I had been looking for someone to be my “person,” to bear my anxiety and take the weight of my worry. Yet, to articulate the feeling weighing on my chest, the Lord asked, “Why do you continue to look for a person when I am your God?” Second, I realized this: why do I need to know what is happening tomorrow, in a week, in a month, or in a year when God, in His infinite wisdom and justice knows exactly what will happen every second of every day? Why do I need to know His plans when I know, because He is perfectly just and good, He will not allow harm to come to me and He will work all things for my good so that His eternal purpose may be carried out? Why do I need to know?

James 1:8 talks about the person who doubts (worries, is anxious, etc.) saying, “Their loyalty is divided between God and the world, and they are unstable in everything they do.” That very much sounded like the girl who could not find her footing, who was being assaulted by the crashing waves of worry and stress. For the longest time, I felt completely unstable, as if two different parts of me were trying to inhabit one soul. After beginning to comprehend the fact that God's wisdom, goodness, and justice is perfect, after realizing I don't need a person when I have the Lord of the universe protecting me, after coming the the conclusion that God has been pushing me toward all year, the conclusion that He knows so I don't need to, I felt immediately centered. It was as if I'd earned my sea legs on the rocking boat. The only way I can truly describe it is it was as if I'd had this kid on my shoulders every few days. Eventually, he would get down and run off to his Father, but he'd always come back, asking to be picked up again. And I, like the good babysitter I am, would put him back on my shoulders until everything in me ached (kids are heavy, you know!). I finally hit a point where I said, “Lord, I am sick of babysitting the thing that you were meant to take all along.”

And He replied,

“I was waiting for you to say that. Have fun, but remember your Creator. Go, I'll take it from here.”