I sometimes wonder what it was like for the Spanish explorers when they first glimpsed the Grand Canyon. I can see them staggering through the forest, their heads bent, their heavy feet threatening to give way with every step. Suddenly they are standing on red rock. Too tired to care, they lean their heads back to pour a douse of water into their mouths, then choke as they see what lies before them; a deep canyon of painted rock stretching for miles and miles, the men’s feet planted inches from their deaths. Every step had brought them closer to the edge. Their wanderings must have seemed endless, but there they were, standing at one of the most magnificent formations in the New World.

            Similar emotions filled me as I stood on the edge of the Grand Canyon, my mouth open in speechless astonishment at God’s creation. My steps had taken me to that spot, that huge destination, but in different ways from the Spaniards. My steps had not carried me through forest and desert, but through a life of fear.

            When I was around nine years old, I had my first panic-attack. I curled up on a couch in my parents’ bedroom, breathing heavily and holding a stomach that ached from an overdose of imagination, my mind oblivious that this moment would begin a cycle of anxiety that only God could cut through.

            Circles never end. You can run around them and try to find a way out, but, unless a door is opened, you end up back where you began. My life was filled with ups and

downs, triumphs and failures. I would begin to imagine the worst-case-scenarios about a vacation at least four months before it took place. I would have days when I could not eat and could not leave the house. Every time I would build up my fears until they nearly swallowed me up, but every time the trip was easier than the mental preparation. To me, going on a trip was like asking me to expose myself to a stomach bug. I was terrified. But every time, God pulled me through, holding my hand and speaking peace into my spirit.

            Unfortunately, every time I ended up in the same rut, doubting that God could do it again. I subconsciously convinced myself that spending the night at a friend’s house was much different from going to the zoo for a day, so God must not be able help me this time.

            A few years ago, my parents told me we were going to Washington D.C. in August. Of course I began to worry at the very start. I imagined myself panicking in the big city, unable to eat or move. I panicked about panicking, feared about fearing. I gave myself stomach aches because I was afraid of getting a stomach ache. I prayed and prayed that God would get me through the trip. I read my Bible every day, hoping for encouragement or advice. My most common prayer was for God to help me not be “nervous, sick, hurt, or scared.”

            Finally, I noticed a pattern as I did my devotions. Every time I opened my Bible, it would open to Psalm 23. I paused, closing the book, and prayed: “God, if you are trying to speak to me through this passage, please show me.” I shut my eyes, took a deep breath, and opened the Bible. When I opened my eyes, I was looking at Psalm 23. Peace flooded into me as I read “The Lord is my shepherd,” loving and thanking God and knowing that He would be with me during the trip. He was. Somehow I did not have a single panic-attack the entire trip. I was able to eat, have fun, and constantly thank God for his presence.

            I have always known God was with me. I have experienced His peace at home and on vacation. Yet the cycle would continue. Every time I got to the top of the hill, I had to go back down again. It was not a specific fear that held me. More like a feeling. I have had to learn to recognize that feeling and shove it away before it takes over. At the beginning of the year of 2010, I had controlled that feeling. I knew its face, I knew where and when it usually came, and I knew how to dim it down. I also knew that God was my stronghold, and that He would carry me as He always did.

            But then my sister asked if we could go to the Grand Canyon. She had been in China, and would be flying to El Paso, New Mexico, and from there, back home to Tennessee. My parents agreed. We would be leaving in about three weeks to pick her up and drive to and from the Grand Canyon, tenting in campsites along the way.

            It seemed like I was turning back to my old excuses. “This is different. It is too last minute. I’ve never spent a comfortable night in a tent. I’ve never been on a road-trip. I’ve never been gone for ten days. I’ve never…I’ve never….”

            Even with these fears weighing on my mind, I was somehow peaceful about it. I would have moments of panic that would somehow die, as if my body was telling me it had been through enough, and it just wanted to relax. So I did.

            I can say that the trip went well because of my own effort. I can say I had learned            

to relax and push away fear. I can say I was strong, and that I beat panic by sheer willpower. But it would only be a lie. As Paul says in 1 Corinthians 1:31, “Let him who boasts, boast in the Lord.”

            It is all because of God that I was filled with peace on that trip. He guided me and led me through a long and painful journey that still continues to strengthen me. I do not regret my fear. I still fear today, but Faith is stronger. My experiences drew me closer to God than I would have ever been without them. Instead of leaving me on the worn path, unable to take another step, God picked me up in His gentle arms and carried me all the way to the rim of the Grand Canyon.