My Freshman year in college, I fell in the dining hall. I was trying really hard to balance a strawberry-filled cup in one hand, while holding on to a bowl of soup perched gently on a takeaway tray. I dropped on my butt right in front of the desserts, and after this sweet boy helped me up he couldn’t resist asking what had happened. Why, was there water on the floor? Did someone accidentally push me? Why did I trip on nothing? Anyway, later that day as I recounted the event to one of my friends, she too, couldn’t understand why I fell. She wanted to know why I, a cool black girl with a certified homegirl badge, had fallen in the dining hall.

I would later come to understand that not only are cool black girls above falling in the dining hall, they also can’t fistpump in frat basements— that’s a dance move for those who can’t really dance, they scream “yaaaaas!” in applause of other cool black girls’ achievements, and most importantly, they can’t show fear. And for a good minute it was fun to try and fit this mold, however absurd it seemed. To live in exclamation marks and move to the rhythm of ‘black’ as choreographed by I know not who.

It was all cute until I realized that there are some things that wouldn’t yield to my will as easily as punctuating sentences in unnecessary 'daaaang's. Like when I would stand in front of my peers to give a presentation, mouth quivering and heart hammering; when fear would choke out my voice in the middle of a class discussion, forcing me to sit in silence, I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself because cool black girls can’t be weak— they’re supposed to be sheathed in a solid haze of fortitude and ‘unbothered-ness’. They're supposed to be above fear.

You know who else is supposed to be above fear? People who have a real relationship with God. Those who live in light of eternity. Who have the imagery of grandeur and awe seeped into their bones. Those who laugh and cry in the same breath while talking about king Jesus in hushed tones. I’ve always wanted to be like those people, those whose knowledge of God spares them from fear.

Instead...

This past Sunday I caught myself in a circle of acquaintances, having to offer up a prayer that wasn’t exactly a grace for a meal. And I froze, my tongue sat in my mouth like steel, uncompassionate and obstinate, unwilling to sound dumb. And so as I often do when I feel like I’ve fallen short, I entered into a bid with God to prove that I’m worthy. I would fast and pray like I never had before. I would stay up past midnight to call down shekinah glory. Maybe then my flesh would faint and my eyes would open wider and I would see him like he is and I’ll see man as I should. Maybe then I would be above this kind of sanctification, the kind that strips you bare and reveals your uncoolness in front of everyone. But on my way home I laughed at the idea.

I laughed because the solution to every sin problem is learning to see God as he is. But will I ever see him in his fullness on this side of heaven? No.

An undignified struggle/ The Prayer for Boldness

I’m fairly certain that anxiety is the kind of sin that’s meant to be slaughtered, quickly. Not only because it’s sin, but because it makes you look weak— because it often links arms with cowardice. And as ready as we are to admit that we eat too much or have anger outbursts, no one wants to be accused of being a coward.

Yes, even as I write this, my tendency is not to pray for God to deliver me from fear, instead, it’s to pray against getting ostracized for struggling with something that’s not cool to struggle with. I want it to be a normal struggle, an unstigmatized one. Maybe then I would be more comfortable to share it with the Christians who seem to have it together and not worry about it being reduced to “it goes away as you get older”s. But as I pray for him to release me from this seemingly unrelenting grip, I’m realizing that he wants me to pray for a heart that doesn’t treasure comfort over loving others. A heart that’s willing to speak the truth with a trembling voice. A heart that’s willing to distance itself from the love of others’ approval. A heart that’s ready to inconvenience itself because it loves truth more than it loves pride and a fine reputation.

Anyway, tomorrow, or Sunday I’ll have a friend ask me to pray over her. And I’ll look at her and wonder why I came to church. We’ll hold hands and I’ll probably totter under anxiety and wait for her to pray first and then decide it was a bad idea to have her pray first because there won’t be anything new to say. But even if there’s nothing new to say, I’ll ask for boldness for her too. Because fear doesn’t always look like chattering teeth. Because boldness doesn’t look like a steady voice and a firm grip and an easy manner.