Currently, I am writing a book on fear and anxiety, and the last few months have given me an unexpected opportunity to put into practice what I am writing.

Years ago, an Army officer showed up at our home to tell us that my oldest brother had died in a plane crash. At the time, few details were available. We knew it had happened overseas, and we later learned the crash was related to terrorism. That sudden knock at the door plunged our family into immediate grief. It was one of the most difficult experiences of my life.

Over the years, I worked through my brother’s death and came to terms with a difficult truth: life holds uncertainty, and we cannot control everything that happens to the people we love.

Recently, however, several losses brought some of those old fears back.

A good friend, whom we had known as healthy and full of life, was diagnosed with glioblastoma a year ago. I recently attended her funeral. A friend of decades was preparing for his grandson’s wedding when he suffered a heart attack and suddenly died. Then a colleague at work lost her 21-year-old daughter in a car accident.

My heart has been heavy for these families trying to make sense of such profound loss. And I will admit, these deaths stirred fear in me again, the fear of losing someone I love and the sobering realization of how quickly life can change.

But something is different this time: I know what to do with the fear.

I understand that my body is reacting, in part, to reminders of an earlier trauma. The suddenness of these deaths, the sound of children crying, the church settings of the funerals—all can cue the body’s alarm system. Recognizing those triggers helps me understand why fear can feel so immediate, even when I am not in danger.

So, I calm my body, and I pay attention to my thoughts.

When fearful thoughts come, I identify them rather than allowing them to wander into the waters of worry. I ask myself where the fear is coming from and challenge thoughts that predict another tragedy simply because tragedy has happened before.

Then I turn my mind toward what I know to be true.

I rehearse the promises of God. He knows my days. He cares for me. He is present in times of trouble. I can bring my fears to Him in prayer and experience His peace.

But I want to do more than simply manage worry. This is where surrender becomes so important.

Jesus does not ask me to carry the burden of constantly wondering whether someone I love will die. He invites me to give that burden to Him, to trust Him with my days, my family, and my future.

That isn’t a cliché. It is an intentional choice I sometimes have to make again and again.

When a fearful thought about loss enters my mind, I surrender it. I pray. I remind myself that the people I love ultimately belong to God, not to me. I cannot protect everyone from every possibility, but I can trust the One who holds us all.

And in that surrender, the Lord comforts me.

Worry cannot prevent tomorrow’s sorrow. It only steals today’s peace. Trust allows me to live fully in the present while leaving what I cannot control in God’s hands.

If you are battling fearful thoughts because of a loss or because you are afraid of what you might lose, bring those fears to the One who promises to be with you. Grief is real, and faith does not erase its pain. But faith means we do not grieve without hope.

I have been deeply comforted knowing that the loved ones I mentioned were believers. I have also watched God meet the people left behind, sometimes moment by moment, with the grace they need.

For the Christian, death does not have the final word. We have the hope of seeing those we love again.

Loss is painful separation, but in Christ, it is not permanent separation. And that hope gives us courage to live today without allowing the fear of tomorrow to take over.