Where Does Courage Come From?

All three of my kids have a bit of shyness to them, just like I’ve always had. Some weeks, to my great surprise, I drop them off at the church nursery and they run inside without a peep. Other times, they cling to our clothes and scream that they don’t want to go.

And, as their mom, I feel that anxiety too.

I’ve struggled with social anxiety in bouts over the years. At times, I could stand alone on a stage to recite lines and read my poetry. Other times, I could barely go to school without having a panic attack within the first hour.

For the past few months, I’ve been in that season of social anxiety again, and going to church has felt suffocating and frightening. Every alarm in my body screams at the highest volume. My limbs feel weak. My stomach knots. I just want to hide in the van and cry. I long to speak brave words to my children to make them fearless; I want to untie a ribbon of faith from my heart and hand it to them, but I don’t have any of my own to give. I’m afraid, and I don’t know how to conquer this fear yet.

Thankfully, I’m learning that courage isn’t pressing forward without any fear (that’s just normal life). Courage is storming the castle while fear bangs its fists on the doors of our hearts, crying for us to retreat. But if the fear remains, where do we find courage? How do we keep moving our feet forward and keep our swords raised? Reflecting on courage in children’s fairy tales, Vigen Guroian writes in Tending the Heart of Virtue,

Courage also needs the ground of ultimate trust on which to stand and act—something or someone who embodies goodness and truth wholly and unqualifiedly. Then it may deepen into a courage to be wholly for others and to risk the self in their behalf. Authentic courage, therefore, makes use of faith and love—or, rather, it fulfills itself in faith and love through selfless and unselfish acts of being for others. (p. 146)

Courage grows from two branches of love—the first branch is faith that Someone greater loves us in spite of what happens and will not abandon us in our time of need. George MacDonald said that the highest condition of the human will is “when, not seeing God, not seeming to itself to grasp him at all, it yet holds him fast.” We find the will, the courage, to press forward in spite of fear because we believe we have taken hold of God’s hand that already held us, even when every feeling declares he’s not there. Courage comes when we take God at his Word, trusting that he truly walks with us through the valley of the shadow of death. 

The second branch of courage grows out as an offspring from faith in God’s love: a love for another. We see this kind of courage in Sam Gamgee as he walked through the gates of Mordor alone, fighting orcs along the way, to save his beloved Frodo. He could complete the mission by himself or try to run home, but he chose to go to the most forsaken and darkest stronghold because he knew his friend lived imprisoned within those walls. We see it in Emma Fox’s story The Arrow and the Crown, where Anna returned to her friend in the woods to help him conquer the spell that held him, even if it put her in peril. When we love someone else greater than our fears, which love is made stronger by resting in the relentless love of God towards us, we can brace our feet rather than flee in the face of fear.

For years, I tried to bootstrap my own courage, to dig up something from within to make me fearless. I tried to use shame, selfishness, and self-preservation, but they all created a distorted and flimsy version of courage that never lasted. I needed to grab hold of the divine love of Christ as my Good Shepherd. 

Rather than trying to force myself to attend church for appearances or to get my needed socialization in for the week, I climbed into the van with a desire to behold and serve my Saviour that morning. Then I branched out from that love and looked to my family—they not only needed to behold and serve their Saviour too, but see me step forward in faith as well. If I want my children to believe in the necessity of church and see their place in the body of Christ, I need to first walk by example for them. 

This didn’t extinguish my fears; my stomach still roiled like a boiling pot of soup. But I found courage, and I had enough to share. As I walk stiffly to the nursery with my little ones in tow, I feel their anxiety. Each Sunday, I’m learning to pray this for myself and for them:

Even though we feel as if we’re walking through the valley of the shadow of death, teach us to bring our every fear to you, and believe that you are with us. Help us to find comfort in your rod and your staff, for we know they protect us as we go forward. You are our Shepherd. Please restore our souls.

This is the heart of courage. Not absence of fear, not grinning and bearing, not looking deep within, not just believing in ourselves. It’s looking and reaching outside of ourselves—first towards Heaven, then towards our fellow man.

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