Fear has a way of creeping in when control slips through our fingers. It doesn’t always arrive as a scream—sometimes, it comes softly, like a breath caught in the throat or a silence too heavy to bear. We don’t always call it fear. Sometimes we call it responsibility, concern, or even prayer. But underneath it all, it is fear. And fear, at its root, is about control. Or rather, the loss of it.
There was a moment—etched forever in my memory—when I felt that loss more than ever before. My husband was being wheeled into surgery for a procedure that was still uncommon at the time: an LVAD implant to help his failing heart. It was meant to be a bridge to a transplant, but whether that bridge would hold was unknown. Just 72 hours earlier, doctors had quietly told us they didn’t expect him to survive. The rapid descent into crisis had left me stunned.
As they prepared to take him into the operating room, I kissed him and told him I loved him. I thought he had simply drifted to sleep—but in truth, his heart had already stopped. The urgency of what was unfolding didn’t reach me until hours later, when the doctor came to give me a full report. But I am getting ahead of the story.
After I left Tom being taken into surgery, I walked into the CICU waiting room, where family, coworkers, and friends were gathered. The moment I entered, they all turned and looked at me. Their eyes searched mine for answers, for comfort, for some sign of hope. Their questions were not spoken aloud, yet they were deafening deep inside me. They tried to distract me with small talk, offering conversation like lifelines.
But what I felt was pressure—a pressure that threatened to unchain the fear I had worked so hard to bind up inside. If I stayed there and let their eyes hold me too long, I was afraid my faith would give way to panic. So I asked for a quiet room. I needed a place where I could be alone. Not out of selfishness, but survival. And in that still room, I sat for hours with no one’s voice to comfort me but the Holy Spirit’s.
There I was protected from distraction, with only the occasional ring of the phone, with brief updates from the surgical nurse. It’s incredible how the ring of that phone choked me with fear. It was amazing that my mind went to the worst news, and that’s what I heard. “We are experiencing complications, but we are working through them. I will call you again in a while,” the faceless voice said. Just as quickly, putting the phone back in the cradle brought a disconnect that reset the panic clock ticking deep down. No hand to hold save for the unseen One I knew was with me.
In that room, an unwavering voice joined mine as I whispered over and over: “If my heart beats, his heart beats. We are one.”
In God’s eyes, my husband and I were one flesh. That’s what marriage means. And if I still had breath, I clung to the hope that God would see I believed it and would honor that covenant promise and return him to me. It wasn’t a bargaining chip. It wasn’t control. It was a surrender. It was not about trust in outcomes, but in Presence. It was faith spoken not to change God’s mind, but to anchor my own.
I believe that was the moment my walk with trust began in earnest—not as a concept I understood in my head, but as a reality I lived through my spirit. My heart aligned with my head, and somehow, faith eclipsed fear.
Lamentations 3:57 says, “You came near when I called on You; You said, ‘Do not fear.’” while another verse, tucked deep in a battle scene in 2 Chronicles 20:12, echoes the same truth: “We do not know what to do, but our eyes are on You.” Sometimes, that’s all we are given; that’s all we can say. And for me that day, it was enough.
Control is not ours to hold. Peace, however, is. Let go of what you think you must manage today. Step away from the chaos of the waiting room. Find the quiet. And listen for the intensely compelling whisper that affirms:
When your heart beats, so does Mine. You and I are one.
What does “surrender” look like to you?
💬 In a crisis, do you tend to draw closer to others, or do you need solitude like Ani did in the quiet room? Why do you think that is?
💬 Have you ever had to trust God not for answers, but simply for His presence? What did that teach you?
👇 Jump into the comments. Let’s reflect, question, and talk this out together.
Beautifully written June… I have no doubt that He was with you both, and His heart beat was synced with each of you. And, yes, there have been times when I needed to sit quietly in my own space. I think sometimes it has been because I simply didn’t know what to say, other times I had too much to say and in the moment, it was not well received. Other times in my life, I have simply fallen to my knees where I was, closed my eyes, and simply prayed for the strength to navigate the events that were unfolding. Even in those times, more often than not, when I have truly felt alone it was because I had difficulty ceding control. But, in walking this journey with Him, it has become clear that “control” is an illusion constructed by humans. We try to control everything in a search for peace, but many times – the heat of the moment/fear – we forget that peace is always available to us through our relationship with Christ, our Lord.
Sometimes it takes a single situation and sometimes it takes a lifetime to truly grasp what has always been available to us. God is truly patient, never forcing us to grow before we are ready, but always ready to help us grow. God is good that way. Your message tells of your heartfelt walk with truth in meaningful communion with your humanity. Thank you for sharing such a personal revelation with all of us.