The 1980s in uptown Hoboken carried its rhythm, a mix of grit and charm that pulsed through Washington Street. Mom-and-pop shops adorned the cracked sidewalks, and you could hear the echo of buses braking, car horns in the distance, and neighbors calling down from open windows. For us, those little grocery stores were lifelines.
That evening, our apartment was filled with the smell of onions and garlic sizzling in oil. My mom stood in the kitchen, stirring the beginnings of dinner. She went for her purse and pulled out a dollar bill and said, “Danny, run across the street and get me a can of beans.”
It was a simple errand, one I had done countless times before. I bounded down the steps, sneakers smacking against the pavement as I darted across Washington Street and into the first store. The bell above the door jingled as I walked in. But after scanning the shelves, I realized, no beans.
I shrugged. No big deal. There was another store just down the block. I pushed open the door and stepped back outside.
That’s when I saw them.
Three guys, lounging on the stoop of an old apartment building, shoulders pressed together, wearing the same jackets like some kind of uniform. Their voices carried, and their eyes tracked every move. My gut twisted. They were a gang, or at least they looked every bit the part.
I kept my gaze locked straight ahead and veered to the far side of the sidewalk, hoping invisibility might save me. It didn’t.
“Hey, kid!” one of them called.
My stomach dropped.
“Pick up those boxes over there!” he barked. “Do it, or we’ll beat you down.”
I froze for half a second. Boxes? Why? None of it mattered. What mattered was the threat laced in his voice. Heat rushed to my face, and my body screamed to run. Without a word, I hurried past them, slipped into the next store, and prayed to find those beans so I’d never have to face them again.
But the shelves betrayed me once more. No beans.
I ran home, breathless, to tell my mom the bad news. She didn’t flinch. “Then get another type. If not, grab pigeon peas.”
This was the moment I should have spoken up and I should have told her about the gang waiting outside. But fear had already sunk its claws into me. My brain felt foggy, my thoughts scrambled. So I went back out.
The first store? No luck.
Which left me with the second.
Which meant passing them again.
Their voices sliced through the air before I even reached the door. This time, it’s sharper and angrier. “You hear us? Pick up those boxes or we’ll cut you!” One of them slid a hand inside his jacket. I didn’t need proof to believe him; the threat of a knife was enough. My legs moved before my mind did, carrying me into the store.
No beans. And again my fear-filled mind made me not bother to look for the pigeon peas.
I had a hundred chances to quit, to turn back, to tell my mom the truth. But fear doesn’t let you think straight. It keeps you circling the same mistakes, like a moth beating against a lightbulb. So I made the worst choice again. I headed back out, back past the same three faces, each glare sharper than before.
And then, something unbelievable happened while I was looking for pigeon peas in the first store.
A tap on my shoulder. I spun around. It was a guy from the neighborhood, someone who lived a block away. He smiled and said, “Don’t worry. You’re good.”
Before I could even ask how, I stepped outside and saw them: a crew of six or seven guys, standing ready to walk with me. A wave of relief swept over me so fast it felt like my body could finally breathe again. Fear lifted like smoke. My stride changed. I even had a little hop in my step as I walked toward the store.
As I walked to the second bodega, the three jackets rose to meet me, their eyes dark, ready for trouble. But then they saw who trailed at my back. Their expressions changed instantly, from menace to fear.
In that moment, I wasn’t the kid cornered by threats anymore. I wasn’t ruled by the knot in my stomach or the fog in my mind. I walked into the store like I owned it, my “protecting crew” watching silently. And yes, at last, I found the pigeon peas.
Unbelievable, but true.
That night in Hoboken showed me how fear can take over your whole body. My heart was racing, my thoughts scrambled, and every choice I made seemed worse than the last. That’s what fear does, it hijacks your mind and clouds your judgment.
Fear doesn’t just make you nervous; it distorts reality. It whispers lies that you’re not safe, not capable, and not loved. It makes you second-guess everything. Instead of thinking clearly, you obsess, replaying worst-case scenarios in your head. Fear shrinks your confidence, dulls your memory of God’s goodness, and convinces you that you’re all alone.
And when fear gets in the driver’s seat, our choices suffer. We avoid hard conversations. We hide instead of stepping into opportunities. We chase false security, money, possessions, and control, thinking those things will keep us safe. Fear keeps us circling the same block, making the same bad choices, like I did that night on Washington Street.
But God’s Word cuts through that fog:
“For the Spirit God gave us does not make us timid, but gives us power, love and self-discipline.”
— 2 Timothy 1:7
“So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God.
I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.”
— Isaiah 41:10
Fear is a bully. But faith reminds us that God is near, that He is strong, and that His Spirit gives us courage to live differently.
Here are five ways I’ve been learning to push back against fear and live by faith:
Fear had me cornered that night in Hoboken. I was trapped, convinced I had no way out, making one bad choice after another. But just when things seemed ready to collapse, God sent help, a crew I never saw coming. It was His reminder that He can step in at the right time, in the right way, and lift fear right off our shoulders. And if He could do that for a scared kid on Washington Street, He can do it for you today.