Another Bloomin' Prayer Failure

Then the time came when the risk it took to remain tight in a bud was more painful then the risk it took to blossom.
Anais Nin

So, when I was growing up, our family didn’t easily say “I love you.” Possibly an uncomfortable muttering of “Lufyoo” if someone died, but most of the time, not even then. I have watched friends throughout my life say those three little words with an ease that astounded me. But with no practice of my own growing up, I felt inept. I became an adult who cringed at the words. I couldn't tell my family or even my friends. Only my dog.

That all changed several years ago when I dated a wonderful guy. He is the only man I have ever truly loved. I knew I loved him before he told me, but I wasn't about to say it first. When he finally did scrounge up enough nerve to sweetly stammer out his feelings for me - I laughed in his face!

What a horrid response. I apologized and poorly tried to explain that I did - well, you know - but I just couldn't say it. My fears were enormous and they overwhelmed me to the point I couldn't see straight. I'm not sure what I was so afraid of, just that those words made me want to flee for the border. But he was so kind and patient. He tried to invent silly tricks to make the transition easier on me, such as spacing each syllable of the dreaded phrase over increasingly closer increments of time, or saying it in other languages -"Te amo!"

During this time my love for him, and therefore my desire to tell him, continued to grow to the point where it eventually dwarfed my fears. And when the day came that I finally blurted it out - nearly two months later - he turned to look at me in shock. And I, panicky and mortified at feeling so exposed and vulnerable, begged him not to look at me. But instead he came to me, cradled my chin in his hands and said my name. I reluctantly opened my eyes and found myself miraculously still alive. Despite my worries to the contrary, the world had not imploded like I thought it might. In fact, the only thing that seemed to have changed was the now gigantic smile on said boy’s face. As the initial terror wore off and I began to feel more secure, I love you's began to gush out of me to the point I am quite sure he was gagging with the overkill. But this was a true story of love conquering all. And it was beautiful.

David Crowder writes of a similar experience with God in his song You Are My Joy:

And He set me on fire and I am burning alive
With his breath in my lungs, I am coming undone
And I cannot hold it in and remain composed
Love’s taken over me and so I propose
To letting myself go, I am letting myself go
You are my joy!

St. John of the Cross reiterates the idea: "The power of love and desire makes one bold. The intoxication of love gives the soul crazy courage."

I love God but I have this pesky worry that my love must not be enough because I still fear so much when it comes to expressing that love. I fear public prayer. I fear public worship. I fear appearing too "churchy" to the secular world. I do hold back. I can't seem to let myself go, especially around people who know me well. I wonder if this means I fear man more than I fear God. And even though I know those kinds of priorities are screwed up to high heaven, I don’t know how to fix it.

When I chicken out, I feel disappointed in myself. In the situation with the boy, my love overcame my fear after only a few months, but I've been a Christian for several years now and I still get shaky hands and knocky knees at the very thought of praying outloud in large groups or worshipping the way I want to.

1 John 4:18 says that perfect love casts out fear. And while I know my love isn't perfect, God's love is. So why am I still terrified? What am I doing wrong? When does the fear leave? Does it leave? Can love overtake my fear, or are those song lyrics beautiful poetry and nothing more? Do I have to act in faith while I'm still afraid in order to initiate a change? If so, ugh. Although that totally sounds like something God would have me do...