I have stalled because of fear.

Although it should have been an adventure, this ever-ongoing transition into public school has been dark, in all honesty. Depression has trailed behind the stress of this frontier. There have been good days, and I don’t hate life altogether. But it has been difficult, mostly because of my lack of strength and bravery—and my tendency to give into fear; I let it dictate my movements and it keeps me from moving.

But I learned this week that worrying isn’t worth my time.

Because I took a beast of a test on Tuesday. Slinking from Room 258, each of us fifteen students felt as if we had failed it. And unlike past exams, the results were slow in coming. Everyday we returned to that same room with knots in our stomachs.

By Thursday, my lab partner decided he could take it no longer; he up and asked our teacher how he had scored on the multiple choice portion. What he discovered surprised us both. Rumor had it the lowest score was below thirty percent—and the highest was a mere seventy-three.

After receiving that information, I let anxiety get the best of me; it reduced me to a hot mess manifested in tears Thursday night. Fear crawled into my heart. Because I knew I had worked hard. I had studied. I had done what was needed, and tried my best. What if none of this would make a difference in the results? What if my best wasn’t good enough? I was afraid I couldn’t do or be what was required of me. My parents tried to tell me I shouldn’t be concerned over something I didn’t know. Maybe I had a passing score. Even so, I cried.

On Friday morning, we quietly asked if we could view our results for the multiple choice portion, just as my lab partner had done. Our teacher agreed. She passed back the papers, and faces fell. The best comment I heard was, “Well, I didn’t fail.”

After all the stress I experienced, my teacher finally handed my scantron sheet to me. I peered at the paper with a thudding heart. And my jaw fell to the table top below. I had received an eighty-three—the highest score in all of the class.

My parents had been right; giving into fear was not the solution when facing an unknown. Faith was better–faith in believing trying my best was the only thing required.

All I could really think that day–accompanied by extreme relief–was my response to any good thing: “Gloria a Dios.

Glory to God.

Glory to God for continually walking with me. Glory to God for not leaving me in a mess of doubts and giving up on my weak faith. Glory to God for slowly ridding my heart of fears.

Glory to God for making me brave.

“Be strong, and let your heart take courage, all you who wait for the Lord!” Psalm 31:24



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