Part 2 of my 8-Part Series, The Year God Redefined Contentment

Hello Friend!

In the first post of this series, The Year God Redefined Contentment: When God Gives You a Word You Don't Want, I shared how God spent the first half of 2026 teaching me about trust, surrender, mercy, and what it means to find contentment in Him rather than my circumstances.

At the time, those lessons seemed unrelated.

What I didn't realize was that beneath many of them was a deeper issue God was exposing.

Fear.

Not the occasional feeling of fear that every person experiences from time to time. A pattern of fear. A lens of fear. A narrative that had quietly followed me for much of my life.

As I've sat with the Lord over the past several months, I've begun to realize that fear wasn't just influencing my thoughts. It was shaping the way I viewed relationships, loss, control, security, and even God Himself.

And perhaps that was most evident in a phrase that came out of my mouth while caring for my dying mother.

A phrase I didn't fully understand at the time.

A phrase that would eventually reveal one of the deepest lies fear had ever convinced me to believe.

The Fear I Didn't Recognize

When I was in high school, I went on a class field trip and spent the day making memories with my friends. Like most teenagers, I couldn't wait to get home and tell my mom all about it.

I still remember the excitement I felt climbing into the car.

But instead of seeing my mom, my dad was there.

That's when he told me she was in the hospital.

She had experienced internal bleeding.

In an instant, my excitement disappeared.

Fear took its place.

Looking back now, I can see that moment wasn't the beginning of my fear. It was simply one of the earliest moments where fear revealed itself.

Long before cancer.

Long before loss.

Long before adulthood.

I carried a deep fear of losing my mom. I didn't understand it then. I certainly couldn't explain it. I just knew the thought of losing her terrified me.

As the years passed, that fear would surface again and again. Sometimes quietly. Sometimes loudly. But always asking the same question:

What happens if the person you love most is taken away?

The Day I Felt Like an Orphan

Fast forward many years.

I was 40, living temporarily in California while caring for my mom during the final months of her battle with cancer.

Tyler was back in Texas working and taking care of our home.

My siblings were largely absent and for the first time in my life, I found myself carrying a level of emotional weight I had never known before.

One day, I was sitting on the edge of the bed, talking with my Uncle Bud.

I was exhausted.

Heartbroken.

Angry.

Overwhelmed.

I remember pouring out my grief, my frustration, and my sadness over having already lost my dad just a few years earlier and now preparing to lose my mom too.

It all felt so unfair. And somewhere in that conversation, through tears, I said something that felt absolutely true in that moment:

"I feel like an orphan."

The irony is that my mother hadn't even passed away yet. Yet I already felt orphaned.

My Uncle Bud lovingly reminded me that I wasn't alone. He assured me that he and my Aunt Sandy loved me and would be there for me.

His words comforted me.

But only slightly.

Because my reality at that moment still felt unchanged.

I felt helpless, hopeless, alone.

And very much like I was becoming an orphan.

Fear's Familiar Voice

As I've reflected on that moment recently, I've realized something I couldn't see at the time.

That statement wasn't born in that bedroom.

It had been forming for years.

The fear I carried as a child.

The fear I felt in high school when my mom was hospitalized.

The fear that surfaced when she was diagnosed with cancer.

The fear that intensified as her condition worsened.

All of it was connected.

For decades, fear had been whispering the same message:

You're going to lose the people you love.

You're going to be alone.

You're going to be abandoned.

The more I look back, the more I realize that my greatest fear was never actually death.

My greatest fear was abandonment.

The loss of connection.

The loss of belonging.

The loss of being loved by the people who mattered most.

Fear had convinced me that if my mom died, I would somehow become alone in the world.

Looking back now, I can see that fear wasn't merely speaking about my mother. It was speaking to something much deeper. It was questioning whether I was truly secure. Whether I truly belonged. Whether I was ultimately loved.

The Lie Behind the Fear

Recently, the Lord brought me back to a verse I've known for most of my life:

"Though my father and mother forsake me, the Lord will receive me." — Psalm 27:10

For years, I viewed that verse primarily as comfort. Now I see something even deeper. David wasn't simply describing loss. He was describing belonging. The promise wasn't that loss would never happen. The promise was that God's presence would remain.

That's an important distinction.

Because God never promised me my mother would live forever. He never promised that grief would not come. He never promised that life would be free from heartbreak. But He did promise His presence. He did promise His love. He did promise that I would never be abandoned.

The enemy wanted me focused on what I might lose.

God was inviting me to focus on what could never be taken away.

As I continued studying Scripture, I found myself drawn to Romans 8.

Paul reminds us that we have received the Spirit of adoption.

Not slavery.

Not fear.

Adoption.

We are sons and daughters of God.

Heirs with Christ.  Chosen. Wanted. Loved. Secure.

Suddenly, something began to click.

The lie wasn't simply that I would lose my mother.

The lie was that losing my mother meant losing my security.

And those are not the same thing.

Looking back now, I can see how much of my life had been spent trying to protect myself from that possibility. If I could prepare enough, control enough, anticipate enough, maybe I could somehow avoid the pain I feared most.

What I couldn't see at the time was that fear wasn't actually protecting me. It was quietly shaping the way I viewed relationships, loss, security, and even God Himself.

What the Heavenly Father Was Really Saying

As I've sat with the Lord this year, I've begun to recognize two very different voices.

The enemy said: "You're an orphan."

The Father said: "You're My daughter."

"See what great love the Father has lavished on us, that we should be called children of God! And that is what we are!" — 1 John 3:1

The enemy said: "You're alone."

The Father said: "I will never leave you nor forsake you."

"Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid or terrified because of them, for the Lord your God goes with you; He will never leave you nor forsake you." — Deuteronomy 31:6

The enemy said: "You're abandoned."

The Father said: "I have received you."

"Though my father and mother forsake me, the Lord will receive me." — Psalm 27:10

The enemy said: "You have to hold everything together."

The Father said: "I've been holding you all along."

"Fear not, for I am with you; be not dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you, yes, I will help you, I will uphold you with My righteous right hand." — Isaiah 41:10

Those truths don't erase grief. They don't erase loss. They don't erase the pain of saying goodbye to someone you love.

But they do expose the lie.

Because the deepest fear operating in my life wasn't actually about death.

It was about being alone.

And what God has been showing me is that through Christ, I never was and never will be alone.

Not when I was a fearful little girl.

Not when my mom was in the hospital.

Not when cancer entered our story.

Not when I sat crying on the edge of that bed..

And not now.

The more I understand God's love, the more I realize that the enemy wasn't simply trying to make me afraid.

He was trying to make me forget Who I belong to.

A New Lens

In the first post of this series, I shared how God has been redefining contentment.

What I'm beginning to realize is that He's also been replacing the lens through which I've viewed much of my life.

For years, fear was the lens.

Fear interpreted every circumstance, anticipated every loss and prepared for every worst-case scenario.

But God is offering me a different lens.

Not a lens of fear.

A lens of belovedness.

The lens of a daughter who knows she belongs to her Father.

And perhaps that's the greatest revelation of all.

Not that I survived losing my mother.

But that I discovered I could never lose Him.

Reflection

As you read this, I wonder if there are places in your own life where fear has been quietly shaping your perspective.

What narrative has fear been repeating to you?

Has it convinced you that you're alone?

That you're forgotten?

That you're unloved?

That your security depends on circumstances?

Take a moment and ask the Lord:

What lie has fear been trying to make me believe?

Then ask Him:

What truth do You want me to receive instead?

The answers may reveal more than you expect.

Prayer

Father,

Thank You for being the perfect Father. Thank You that Your love is not dependent upon circumstances, people, or outcomes. Thank You that even in seasons of grief, loss, and uncertainty, Your presence remains constant.

Lord, reveal any areas where fear has been shaping our thoughts, beliefs, or decisions. Expose the lies we have partnered with and replace them with Your truth.

Remind us that we are not abandoned.

We are not forgotten.

We are not alone.

Through Christ, we have been adopted into Your family and welcomed into Your heart.

Help us see ourselves through the lens of Your love rather than the lens of fear.

And when fear tries to speak louder than Your promises, remind us who we belong to.

Thank You for receiving us, holding us, and loving us through every season.

In Jesus' name, Amen.

 

With Love,