One hot summer day, my family and I hiked a beautiful but rugged trail in the Virginia mountains with a rewarding view at the end. After enjoying the scenery and taking photos, we began the long, uphill return, with our mostly-grown kids racing ahead. My husband and I lagged behind, amiably chatting while enjoying the lush greenery, the misty rain, and the gentle sounds of nature.

Suddenly, the peace was broken by a primal scream, which apparently came from me. One of my biggest fears became a reality as a snake popped onto the path right under my left foot. Like one of those cats startled by a cucumber in the terrible YouTube videos, I leaped backward, enabling me to avoid stepping on the interloper. 

I'm grateful my children were far enough ahead that they only heard the initial scream and didn't witness the crying and hyperventilation that ensued. It felt like an out-of-body experience. I knew I looked and sounded utterly ridiculous, but for a moment, my brain and emotions refused to accept that I would be okay.

Snakes terrify and disgust me. Even the thought of slithery serpents is enough to make me feel queasy. But despite this fear and loathing (rooted in several bad experiences), I have hiked miles of wooded trails over the years with my family and have never encountered a legless reptile. I have been lulled into a false sense of security.

But it wasn't the snake in the path that scared me the most and made my heart pound—it was the quick and clear understanding that these trails weren't as safe as I had presumed. It was the knowledge that I had to continue into this snake-filled forest to get out, with the very real threat of more fearsome creatures appearing. Even if I could somehow get past this snake, I would run the risk of others ahead. 

In an instant, the woods went from being a happy place to a world full of dangerous possibilities. I knew I couldn't stay where I was, but moving forward was extremely unappealing. The situation felt so impossible for a brief moment that being airlifted out crossed my mind. 

Mixed with my terror were also sad questions racing through my mind: Would I ever hike again? Would my fear now rob me of something that had always brought such joy?

These thoughts flew through my head like life flashing before one's eyes during a near-death experience. Meanwhile, I was still stuck on the trail with the object of my fear. My shriek had frightened the creepy critter. He lay there, frozen in the middle of the path, my husband on one side of him and me on the other. My calm spouse attempted to make it go away, but that only caused more worry—that it would come toward me or strike him.

As I took deep breaths and tried to return to a rational state, the snake finally slithered back into the brush from whence he came. By that time, my middle son had returned to check on us. This is the son who loves all things nature, including reptiles. Coaxing me forward, he walked confidently before me, unafraid and sharing helpful facts about snakes to ease my concern. My husband followed behind me, adding humor to lighten the situation. We caught up with the rest of the group. 

Unfortunately, as we told them what had happened, another snake slithered past my son! This serpent was even bigger than the first, and although his appearance proved that my fear was not unfounded, I managed to stay calm. Maybe because I had been praying since the last sighting, and this time, I wasn't surprised. Also, I felt safely hemmed in by people who cared about me.

The rest of the hike wasn't as bad as I imagined. We chatted and joked about the incident. The trail was beautiful. We didn't see any more snakes, and I felt a sense of overwhelming gratitude that I wasn't alone.

As we neared the large clearing that signaled the end of the trail (I'd never been so happy to see a large clearing before), I realized that this situation had figuratively played out in my life many times in the past. Heart-stopping moments when "life snakes" suddenly appeared in the path, taking me from joyful to miserable in the space of a second, were not foreign to me.

I thought about the times my children had faced severe illnesses; the three years my sister battled ALS; the dark path of sleeplessness and uncertainty as a new parent; a foot injury that required years to heal. I thought about the pandemic we are all living through now. Life snakes come in all shapes and sizes. Even smaller ones, such as relational conflicts, stomach bugs, mistakes, or leaky roofs, can send us into a tailspin. 

Woodland journeys aren't without peril, and neither is a walk in this world. Life can feel like a veritable trail of fears. No guarantee exists that we (or someone we love) will not fall, be attacked, have to make detours, suffer an injury, or become sick. 

During frightening and frustrating seasons and situations, I often wished to be airlifted out, and deposited into a happier, sunnier place, just as I wished when I faced the snake. Of course, that wasn’t possible. But as I reflected on these hard paths from my past, I recognized with gratitude that, although I wasn’t delivered from them, I didn’t walk alone through them.

This is how Christians get through life with joy: we go with God and go with each other. Whether family, friends, strangers, or church family, we stick together and help each other through the "snakey" patches. We hem each other in. We point each other to the truth. We speak calm words of assurance and encouragement. We lighten and carry each other's load.

And to enjoy the gift of life together, we have to keep going, not worrying about what may befall us on the trail. We trust we'll come out stronger on the other side of the walk. And if we don't come out on the other side while on earth, we have faith that we will enter a perfect patch of sun in eternity. We remember that the God who made the trail will walk it with us. And so will our fellow hikers.

The day after that fateful incident, my family decided to hike again. I wanted to join them but felt worried about encountering another snake. I didn't know if I could do it. My false sense of security in the woods was permanently erased, but I wanted to enjoy the journey with the others. Still, I was scared.

Undecided, I rode along to the trailhead and got out of the car. I walked the first few steps. Then I took a few more steps. And then I just kept going. There was a beautiful waterfall at the end of the trail.  

Weeks later, my youngest son wanted to trek the beginning of Grandfather Trail—which looks like the breeding ground of all snakes. I paused before starting, as my fear of serpents once again battled with my desire to experience the beauty of the forest and the time with my son. My heart was racing, and I was somewhat terrified. New trails, like new days, with their unknown adventures, risks, and rewards, require renewed courage. I took a deep breath, prayed, and forged ahead into the woods. It was a good hike.

How have you experienced fear in your life? Do you believe God is with you when you are afraid? How do you avail yourself to the support of others during difficult seasons in life? What support could you offer to a friend who is fearful or hurting right now?