Fear is a powerful thing. Sometimes it grips you and it doesn’t let go.

I never expected to wake up to fear a week ago. But I was still laying in bed when my phone rang and in my sleepy fog could barely make out the words of my husband pleading with me to get out of bed and lock the doors. I mumbled something like “I’ll lock it when I get up” and then heard the words now, shooter and neighborhood. It suddenly clicked. And I was awake.

Fear gripped my heart as I woke up sleeping children and quietly hustled them to safety. I had them lie down on my bed in the basement, away from the windows with all the blinds drawn and the bedroom door locked. I locked the front door and barricaded it with a chair. I locked the back door and barricaded it with a table. Because there was someone shooting at people in our neighbourhood. And at the time I didn’t know where he was so I prepared for the worst.

We fell in love with our house partly because of this neighborhood. There are two schools within walking distance, a lovely park with a wading pool, several tall trees – and lots of friendly people. We like our neighbours. We talk to each other, we help one another, and we trust each other. So it seemed surreal that our neighbourhood was under lockdown and there was danger in our midst.

Danger, and yet the sky was blue. Murder, and yet the sun was still shining. Four people were killed two minutes from my house, on a beautiful morning in a usually peaceful neighborhood. But there wasn’t anything peaceful about that day. Two people in a parking lot getting ready for their day, and two police officers who came to help them. Gone.

After a few hours the lockdown was lifted, the murderer in custody. I told my children it was safe, and we let ourselves out of the locked bedroom in the basement. And it struck me – my children had been laying still and silent for three hours. My noisy, animated children had known the danger. They’d understood. It struck a chord with me, that they’d been silent for so long.

We watched the television all day. Updates on the investigation, on all that had happened. Somehow, the day came and went. But as the sun set that night, a husband went to bed without his wife and two wives without their husbands. That night, the sky was perfectly clear – but ten children went to bed with one less parent than they’d had that morning.

That morning, when I was locked in my basement bedroom with my two children I was calmer than I expected. It is more like me to be afraid, to panic more than I did. But as I laid there in the silence, I whispered these words to my boys but mostly to myself.

When I am afraid, I put my trust in you. Psalm 56:3

The Lord is my light and my salvation— so why should I be afraid? The Lord is my fortress, protecting me from danger, so why should I tremble? Psalm 27:1

I prayed to the Lord , and he answered me. He freed me from all my fears. Psalm 34:4

For I hold you by your right hand— I, the Lord your God. And I say to you, ‘Don’t be afraid. I am here to help you. Isaiah 41:13

As these whispered words reached my heart an overwhelming peace filled my soul. Because in the midst of danger, in the midst of fear, it was as if the Prince of Peace was in that room with us. And as the hours wore on and the day became night, I prayed that those families who had lost their loved ones would experience His peace too.

But then, later that night a tender hearted little boy crept into our room and whispered he was afraid. What if the shooter came back? Fear made him afaid to sleep in his bed, afraid to be away from us. I sang him a song from my childhood, a song I still sing over myself when fear interrupts my sleep.

I will lie down and sleep

and sleep in peace

I will lie down and sleep in peace

You alone, Oh Lord, make me dwell in safety

I will lie down and sleep in peace.

– Steve Green, Hide em in Your Heart (1990, Sparrow Records)

Based on Psalm 4:8

He drifted off to sleep after that, and I did too. But here’s the thing – sometimes fear sticks.

This morning I went to the hospital for my weekly treatment. It was another beautiful day, a cool breeze with bright blue skies and stunning sunshine. But it was different than it had been all those other times I’ve had my appointment. Four uniformed officers stood guard outside the outer doors. Inside, many more were present. The shooter, who had taken four lives before being wounded himself, was still recovering in the hospital. I went to my treatment as usual, but when my husband picked me up afterwards my little tender hearted boy reached from the backseat and clutched my arm. “Mom, did you see the shooter? What if he got to you?”

I reassured him and we drove home. All along the way, his little hand kept resching for me. We drove past the police station, cluttered with flowers and sentiments, a memorial for the fallen. “Is that because of the shooter?” We drove past the school, it’s windows boarded up to be replaced. “Did the shooter break those windows?” We drove past the building where it had all happened, minutes from our house. A handful of flowers and a balloon sat outside the building, a memorial for the two civilians who died. So small in comparison to the one outside of police station. His voice, quieter, “that’s because of the shooter.”

We went home and he sat beside me on the couch. We talked about all that had happened, too much for him to process from the events the week before. We talked about fear, and how it sticks to you.

But here’s the thing – we don’t have to be afraid. Just like the words of that sweet tune and even sweeter Psalm say, He gives us peace and allows us to dwell in safety. Even if we can’t quite get past the fear.

Even if the fear sticks. Even if we don’t understand why God also allows tragedies to strike. Even when it breaks our hearts to watch others suffer. Even when we lose someone that we love. Even when we grieve. His peace is our gift.

I am leaving you with a gift—peace of mind and heart. And the peace I give is a gift the world cannot give. So don’t be troubled or afraid.
John 14:27

One week ago as I lay with my children, not knowing what was happening but knowing of the danger, I experienced this peace. Today, as I talked to my son, we prayed he would experience this peace too. It’s an everlasting peace. Unexplainable peace. His peace, for us, for all time, through every situation.

Fear can be sticky. But His perfect love casts out all of our fears, and He replaces our fears with His peace. We don’t know what will await us tomorrow. We can’t always be prepared for when the next tragedy strikes. But we can continually ask for His peace that goes down deep into our hearts. And with His peace, our broken can start to heal.

I love the sound of the vacuum cleaner. I like the constant whir it makes as the motor runs. The pop, pop, pop it makes as it plows through debris, sucking it away deep into it’s belly. This might seem strange, really. Thinking of a vacuum cleaner in that way, but I find it calming. When I was a young girl, after we were tucked into our beds my Mom would bring out her vacuum and clean up after us. Not every night, I’m sure. Still, hearing that vacuum as I drifted off to sleep made me feel safe.

I’ve always loved a clean and tidy house. When my house is sparkling clean, I feel like I have my life together. When I was twenty, I had the cleanest apartment in the building. (I think. I mean, I don’t actually know for sure, but it was really tidy). I would clean when I was stressed, and fourth year was all that and then some. I loved going to the laundromat, taking my work with me and listening to the drone of the machines as I studied (okay, okay – I was often distracted watching the clothes going round and round in every dryer). I loved to sort and fold the clothes when they were done. Carefully carrying them home in my basket and putting them away in my drawers.

Now I think back to those days and laugh. How easy it was to clean after one person, to do a small load of laundry once a week? Fast forward fifteen years, and I’m cleaning after four people now. On an easy week, I do twelve loads of laundry (on not so easy weeks, sixteen). I don’t mind, really. When I sort and fold the clothes I think of it as a simple way I can love on my family. I still live doing laundry. It’s just, so much has changed and it is different now.

Cleaning the kitchen or bathroom used to be easy and fun, because the results were immediate and rewarding. I would get down on my hands and knees and scrub away grime, watching everything wash away like it was a problem I’d solved. Everything so clean and fresh, like a new beginning.

Now I walk into the bathroom and I see grime line the floorboards. I walk into the kitchen and I see spaghetti sauce on the side of the cupboard near the garbage can. Sometimes I grab my cloth and scrub it away. Other times, I turn away because I just can’t do it. Because oftentimes, having a chronic illness means you just can’t live like you used to. Honestly, I don’t feel sad or ashamed about what’s happened to my body. I just feel discouraged sometimes. To know what I used to be capable of, and to understand what my limitations are now.

My husband has the gift of hospitality. He loves having people over to stay, to come for a meal, or even just for coffee and a chat. I do, too. It fills my heart with joy to spend time with others. But, being hospitable sometimes comes at a cost. And often, whe my husband suggests we have company, it’s a struggle for to set a date. More often than not I have to choose between the super clean house I’d love to have when guests arrive, and actually spending time with my guests. Because in my world, I can’t always do both.

I’ve learned to manage over the last few years, as my body started to get worse. I have to work in phases, taking many breaks. It takes so much longer to clean now, and sometimes it is worth it. But other times, I wonder what have I been missing while I cleaned? And more importantly, who am I missing because I cleaned?

My mother’s house was (and still is) sparkling clean whenever she had guests. I was always taught to have my house looking spectacular when my visitors arrived. I’m not sure if it was to make them feel special, or if it was just so they wouldn’t know the chaos we usually live in. But the point got through – clean. When I was a child I figured the art of hospitality was a sparkling clean home, a fancy meal and a spectacular dessert. Now, I’ve learned sometimes the art of hospitality is the heart of it.

I don’t want to be caught into the trappings of a spectacular house, a fancy meal and a spectacular dessert. But I do want to have guests. I want to spend quality time with them, share a meal, have a few laughs, bring encouragement. I want to be present with people, and not stressed over whether my windows are so clean you can see your reflection in them. I don’t want to give my chronic illness one more reason to keep me from experiencing a rich life.

If you ever happen to be a guest in my home, please be gracious. It will be as clean as I can make it so you feel special. The food may not be fancy, but we’ve prepared it with love and are pleased to share it with you. As for the spectacular dessert, why don’t you bring it? We’ll enjoy it together over some tea and talk.

The heart of hospitality is, after all, love. And I’ll never be too sore or to tired for that. ❤️