When Fear Meets its Match:

It was a cold November night, the kind that settles deep into your bones, and I was full of excitement. I was finally getting to hunt with my grandfather. That alone made the night feel special. You see I was now old enough that he had just started taking me with him some and I fell in love with the hounds.

My grandfather was a short, stout man built like pure muscle. He had a six-pack before six-packs were fashionable. Raised during the Depression, he learned early that nothing came easy. His mother worked hard, and from what family lore tells us, his father talked more than he worked. As a young man, my grandfather went to work on the WPA just to eat, and from there he ended up serving in the Army during World War II.

Life had forged him into a strong, no-nonsense man. Humor wasn’t his currency in those early years, and patience was something he spent sparingly. My dad and uncle told stories about a deaf dog my grandfather kept tied outside the basement door where their bedroom was. The dog wasn’t there for companionship. He was there to make sure nobody snuck in or out. If you startled that dog, you paid for it. My grandfather was a good man, but he was a tough man.

Later in life, God did a deep and unmistakable work in his heart. When my grandfather got saved, the change was real. God softened him. He began to serve faithfully, and years later made a point to invest time in his grandchildren. One of the ways he spent time with me was through hunting, and for that I will always be grateful.

That November night is one I will never forget. We were hunting in Bland County, Virginia. The dogs were cut loose, and it didn’t take long before we heard them tree. Two dogs were working that night. Kate, a beautiful Black and Tan, who had a voice that would have made George Jones jealous. This was probably the best dog my grandfather ever owned. The other was Tinker, an Elkhound who was a squirrel-hunting machine but could also work a coon when needed.

We walked what felt like miles from the truck before we reached the dogs. Something unique was happening that night. My grandfather had bought a little single-shot .22 “Chipmunk” rifle

to pack while coon hunting. It was untried, brand new, and he knew that as a young teenager I could handle it safely.

When we got to the tree, Kate was hammering it down, her voice echoing through the woods in a way only a good hound can manage. We circled the tree, and sure enough, we spotted a pair of glowing eyes. Excitement rushed through me. I knew I was about to take the shot, and I could already picture us skinning the coon before the night was over. This was before cell phones and social media so pictures were not proof we posted coon tails and squirrel tails on vehicle antennas sort of a Redneck Instagram.

My grandfather handed me the rifle, reached into his pocket for shells, and realized he’d made a mistake. Instead of regular .22 long rifle shells, he had brought .22 shorts. They were quieter and less powerful, but he shrugged and said they would have to do.

As I raised the gun, another problem surfaced. I couldn’t see the sights. I started talking fast, telling him something was wrong. He looked and realized the rifle had a peep sight. Between the headlamp and flashlight, it was nearly impossible to line up correctly.

Still, we tried. I fired shot after shot, probably twenty rounds, and never hit a thing. Then my grandfather took the gun and fired the rest of the shells. Same result. Nothing.

That’s when he said something that changed the whole night.

“I’ve got a .410 shotgun in the truck, behind the seat,” he said. “You stay here with the dogs, and I’ll go get it.”

I was about thirteen years old. I had a loving, protective mother, and I was not accustomed to being left alone in the middle of the woods. We were at least two miles from the truck. I had a weak two-D-battery flashlight and absolutely no confidence that I could find my way back if something went wrong.

That moment was where my love for dogs collided head-on with my fear.

Fear had always been a battle for me. School, Boats, People, New situations. Even things I loved were sometimes overshadowed by anxiety. And there I stood, surrounded by darkness, barking dogs, and the vast unknown. For the first time, fear threatened to overpower something I deeply loved.

I told my grandfather there was no way I was staying there alone.

His disappointment was obvious. His frustration was clear. He didn’t want to leave the dogs and risk them breaking tree, and now here he was with a scared grandson refusing to stay put. In his mind, it probably felt like weakness. In mine, it felt like survival.

We eventually found a way to shake that coon out, and the night worked itself out. But I’ve thought about that moment many times since.

Years later, after my salvation, God began to deal with something deeper than a childhood memory in the woods. He began to deal with fear itself.

Salvation did not instantly erase every anxiety in my life. In fact, some fears lingered and even intensified as God started reshaping my heart. But what changed was this: I was no longer facing fear alone.

Scripture tells us plainly, “For God gave us a spirit not of fear but of power and love and self-control” (2 Timothy 1:7, ESV). Fear was no longer my master. It was something God intended to conquer in me.

Just like that night in the woods, fear often speaks loudest when we feel isolated. But God reminds us, “Fear not, for I am with you; be not dismayed, for I am your God” (Isaiah 41:10,ESV). What I didn’t understand as a boy was that fear thrives in the belief that we are alone. What I learned as a believer is that God never leaves us standing in the dark by ourselves.

Dogs taught me something powerful here. A good dog doesn’t abandon the tree. A faithful hound stays, even when the night is long and the woods are loud. Over time, God showed me that He is far more faithful than any dog I ever loved. Where fear once told me to run, God taught me to stand.

“The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear?” (Psalm 27:1, ESV).

God began to peel away anxieties layer by layer, not by removing every frightening situation, but by replacing fear with trust. Where fear once controlled my decisions, God gave peace. Where anxiety once dictated my reactions, God gave confidence rooted in Him.

“When I am afraid, I put my trust in you” (Psalm 56:3, ESV).

That night in the woods marked the first time I realized fear could overpower love. But my walk with God has taught me the opposite truth: perfect love drives out fear (1 John 4:18). God tells us to stand firm, trust His presence, and remain faithful, even when the night feels long.

Just like a good dog at the tree, God doesn’t leave. And when you learn that, fear loses its grip.

God promises in His Word I will never leave you nor forsake you”