What El Salvador Taught Me about Fear
When I was a college student, I spent a semester abroad studying Central American history. In El Salvador, my study program placed me in a homestay with a Christian family whose father worked for the 700 Club.
It was 1996—just four years after the end of the Salvadoran Civil War—and trauma was still close. The family made generous space for me, but the unease in the home was palpable. During mealtimes and long evening hours, loud silence filled the rooms with its weight.
One Sunday evening, after I worshiped with the family at church and we all laughed at my clumsy attempt to make pupusas, something shifted. After we’d devoured the savory pockets, the father and his young adult daughter began to open up, speaking in hushed tones about what they’d endured during the war.
They told me of walking past bodies on their way to school and work. They knew that those who spoke out were the ones who disappeared. So, they kept their eyes down and their mouths shut. The anguish in their eyes told me everything about the cost of that silence.
Later, when I rejoined my college classmates, we shared stories. Students who’d stayed with families like mine described similar homes—places filled with heavy air, thick with silence chosen for survival. But those who’d stayed with families that had spoken out described something different. The suffering was real, and the costs had been high. But there was a kind of lightness in those homes, a freedom that comes when truth is spoken and fear is not given the final word.
“Pay attention to that,” our teachers told us. “In times of war and repression, fear is a tactic. The goal of the death squads was silence—because silence enables atrocity.”
Lately, in conversations with friends, I’ve felt a current of unease. There’s an energy in the air that reminds me of what I encountered in El Salvador. And I’ve been thinking of my Salvadoran family and the hard, holy lesson they taught me.
Their testimony will not let me forget: Courage interrupts silence.
And true courage is born from remembering who we belong to.
We belong to the One so moved by love that He left the throne to suffer among us and our neighbors—neighbors next door and neighbors in El Salvador.
The One who told the story of the Good Samaritan—not to moralize, but to call us to see, to stop, and live lives bound to the wounded.
The One who gave us His Spirit—the very power that raised Jesus from the dead—alive now in us.
Again and again in Scripture, His voice rings out: Do not fear. Fear not. Do not be afraid.
A steady call reminding us: We were not given a spirit of fear, but of power, love, and a sound mind.
When we face trials and uncertainty of every kind, like Paul, let us be convinced:
“Neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future… will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.”
And let that knowledge empower us to love like Jesus loved, not only for our neighbors, but for the generations who will walk the paths we choose today.
Question for Reflection:
Jesus calls us to go and do likewise—to see, to stop, and to act in love. Fear can keep us silent, eyes averted from suffering. But Scripture reminds us that we are not given a spirit of fear, but of power, love, and a sound mind. If the love of Christ truly lives in you—if the Spirit who raised Jesus from the dead is alive in you—what changes?
Ask Yourself:
What would I do, who would I be, how would I love if I were not afraid?
Amy Olrick’s work and writing have been featured in the Guardian, USA Today, and ChristianParenting.org. She and her husband, Dr. Jeffrey Olrick, are co-authors of the book, The 6 Needs of Every Child: Empowering Parents & Kids through the Science of Connection and share parenting resources at GrowingConnected.com
