It was a Tuesday morning. I was in the 8th grade and I’d just finished my first period class, a class called Fresh Expressions, meant to foster and cultivate our creativity. It was a favorite of mine that year. As slowly as I could {while still being on time}, I made my way to second period—which was algebra, and definitely not one of my favorites. As I walked into Mrs. Allen’s classroom, there was a hum of energy inside I couldn’t quite put my finger on. But I knew something in the room felt…different.

Did someone find out about a pop quiz? Did we have a substitute? What was going on? I found my way to my desk, set my things down, and then, looked up. And that’s when I noticed:

The TV mounted on the wall in the corner of the classroom was turned on, the eyes of several fellow students fixated on the screen. I joined them.

And what I saw…what I saw was a skyscraper on fire. As I continued to scan the TV screen, I quickly found the headline near the bottom. It read: “New York City: Plane crashes into Twin Tower.” What?

I soon heard murmurings from classmates who were just as confused I was. Why would a plane fly into a building? How could a pilot make such a grave, obvious mistake? Maybe there something wrong with the plane? Was it even an accident or was it on purpose? What was happening?

And then, as the anxious energy in the room continued to build, right before our eyes on live television, a second plane crashed into the second Tower. Mrs. Allen turned off the TV.

The next 40 minutes or so were a struggle, not only because we were in algebra class, but because we had to do our work as if we hadn’t just seen what we’d seen. It felt impossible, and it was.

Finally, second period ended and I made my way to third: English with Mrs. Sorrow. Mrs. Sorrow’s TV was on and she let us watch. There was still so much we didn’t know in those moments, but do I remember the news anchors starting to call what we witnessed “an attack.” We continued to watch and worry and wonder and then, the unthinkable happened, again, right before our eyes—one of the towers collapsed. The rest, of course, is history. And I’ll never forget it.

Even in the midst of the terror and tragedy, in the days, weeks, and months that followed, stories of incredibly brave people made the headlines. First-responders and airline passengers and co-workers alike. So many stepped up, rising to the occasion, risking everything for the sake of others. Their acts of courage were big and bold, valiant and admirable. They seemed unfazed by fear, and even as a 13-year-old, I was inspired. I, too, wanted to be strong and brave and courageous. Though I’m not sure I knew exactly what that all meant at the time. And, if you’re listening in real time, 23 years later to the day, admittedly, I suppose it’s still something I’m figuring out.

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All throughout scripture, we hear the familiar refrain, “Do not fear” or “Do not be afraid.” 365 times, actually. Some days when I hear it, it feels like a comfort. Other days, it feels like a challenge. But whether comforting or challenging, most days, it sounds like a call. A call to practice courage.

The truth is, fear is very much part of our reality. It exists. We will experience it. And there’s no shame in that. The call to not fear is not necessarily a call to eliminate it. As people like Franklin Roosevelt and Nelson Mandela famously remind us, “Courage is not the absence of fear…” Courage is refusing to be led by it. Courage—the call to not be afraid—means not letting fear lead.

Easier said than done, of course. But one thing I’m finding and noticing and experiencing is that fear tends to creep in mostly when I forget. When I forget I am secure. When I forget I am held. When I forget my inherent belonging. And courage tends to begin when I remember God goes with me, that I am irrevocably wrapped in God’s love, and that God’s is a Love I can trust to lead me.

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Not two minutes after that first Tower fell, Mrs. Sorrow’s phone rang, one of many similar phone calls she and other teachers received that morning. She told me to gather my things and head to the office. With an okay from my parents, my best friend’s mom was there to pick us up. We were going home. With all we didn’t know at that point, home felt like a good place to be.

It is not lost on me that I was able to go home that day; so many others caught up in the terror were not. It is not lost on me that my actual home was and is a safe space; that is not everyone’s experience. One thing I’m learning, though, is that while “home” can certainly be a place we go, it can also be a truth we carry within.

In Psalm 27: 1-5, we read:

The Lord is my light and my salvation;
    whom shall I fear?
The Lord is the stronghold of my life;
    of whom shall I be afraid?

When evildoers assail me
    to devour my flesh—
my adversaries and foes—
    they shall stumble and fall.

Though an army encamp against me,
    my heart shall not fear;
though war rise up against me,
    yet I will be confident.

One thing I asked of the Lord;
    this I seek:
to live in the house of the Lord
    all the days of my life,
to behold the beauty of the Lord,
    and to inquire in his temple.

For he will hide me in his shelter
    in the day of trouble;
he will conceal me under the cover of his tent;
    he will set me high on a rock.

David, the psalmist here, knew there was much to fear. Fear was very much part of his experience. And while there were certainly times in his life when he let that fear take the lead, in this psalm, we witness him remembering what was most true. That he could find a refuge, a shelter, a haven, a home, in the very heart of God. And I wonder if that assurance and security—that deep sense of “home”—gave him the courage to be the person God called him to be.

As we seek to do the same, what might it look like for us to practice courage? Courage can be a big, grand gesture, a response to literal life-or-death threats and danger. That kind of courage is commendable and worth aspiring to. And I’m also learning that sometimes courage is small and subtle, but no less significant.

Courage might look like trying something new and courage might look like letting something go.

It might look like seeking to do what is right and it might look like admitting when we’re wrong.

Sometimes courage is quiet, and sometimes courage is loud.

It could be saying “yes” and it could be saying “no.”

Courage might be deciding to leave and courage might be choosing to stay.

Courage looks like kind curiosity.

Courage looks like forgiveness.

Courage looks like hope.

Courage is taking a deep breath.

It’s having the hard conversation.

It’s extending the invitation.

Courage is telling the truth.

Courage is being yourself.

Courage is trust that listens and lets Love lead.

So today, if you are experiencing fear, remember to practice courage. To not let fear lead, but to instead, be led by Love. May we know and carry with us the home we find in God, as we continue to do the brave work of becoming the people God calls and invites us to be.