Purple was my least favorite color as a child.

In a method of rather superstitious means, I found a way to convince myself that the color purple brought me bad luck. I always seemed to be wearing purple when sickness struck. The purple candy never tasted the same as the other colored candies. And the purple piece in every board-game was definitely jinxed. It’s no surprise then, that the outside of my Jesus Box was dark purple with a light purple stripe around the top.

The inside, no doubt – was also purple.

Although my Jesus Box did not actually have material form, in my imagination it was as real and purple as it gets. It was also battered and stuffed into the very top of my closet, secured like most shoeboxes with a few rubber bands around the outside to secure its contents. I never exposed the inside of this box to the light for fear the contents would pour out and ruin my life. Sometimes I pretended the Jesus Box wasn’t there. Other times, I forgot about it (usually when I needed it the most).

If you haven’t guessed the secret to this imaginary shoebox, you should know that the Jesus Box held all my fears.

It began by the suggestion of my mother one day when I confided to her the overwhelming nature of one of my fears. As a small child, my fears would likely make most adults smile. Did I worry what the first day of preschool was going to be like? Yes. Was I fearful of getting sick? Yes. Did I dread the orthodontist’s impressions and the constant gagging that would entail? Yes.

But in looking back, I realize that my fears grew in proportion to my maturity. Like the rest of humanity, as I grew, the realities of life grew with me. Instead of fearing preschool, I worried about my first day at college or my first job interview. I worried that my unborn baby sister wouldn’t make it. I feared the move from one part of the country to another, leaving behind all family and friends. I worried that I would witness someone die. I feared an unknown future. 

It was always the same routine, no matter how old I was: my mom would find me sitting on the side of my bed late at night, unable to sleep, with one or more of these “unknowns” weighing heavily on my heart. The thing that I feared would usually be something I could do nothing about. Mom always reminded me of this, asking, “Is there anything you can do to about it?” And the answer would be “no”. There was no way I could save my baby sister’s life. . . no way I could make sure our move to St. Louis would be full of lonliness… no way I could prevent someone who was terminally ill from dying. No way I could ensure that I would not be 30 and still single. (ha!)

“Then put it in the Jesus Box,” Mom would say. “If you’ve done everything you can do, this is not in your control. It’s in God’s. Your job is to give it to Him  – put it away in the Jesus Box. He will either make that which you fear go away or help you endure it when the time comes.”

Mom was right. When placing my fears into the “Jesus Box” I made a rule of never being able to take the fear out again for another look. It was an all or nothing practice for an all or nothing person. I’m either going to hold on to something I cannot control or completely give it up.

I’ve changed over the years – and my imagination has too. At the age of 30, I was forced to face one of my worst possible fears. For weeks, I wrestled with the unknown, trying to give that which was out of my control to the loving hands of God. I remembered the Jesus Box one night and began to unearth the old friend for another go at giving up.

But when I found my Jesus Box, I was surprised to notice that it wasn’t purple anymore. And wasn’t battered or torn.

My Jesus Box was beautiful. Like an unearthed treasure, it was brilliantly golden and solid. It begged to be taken down from the top of the closet and displayed in place of honor. And when the lid was removed, the contents did not spill out like I always thought they would. They were gone. Our Lord had taken everything I had placed inside over the course of my life and had addressed each and every fear, removing some completely and preparing me to live through others. I wasn’t really living my fears after; I was facing them with the strength of another Heart much heartier than mine.

The presence of fear will likely never change within me, but my view of God’s care for them has. The box is no longer ugly to me; it is a treasury of love and trust, waiting to take my fears and turn them into something.

My Jesus Box is no longer purple.