What, Me Worry?

True story:  My father grew up with Don Martin, cartoonist for Mad magazine.  In a little town in New Jersey, Brookside to be exact, my father and his brother and his cousin and Don Martin and a few others played and camped and hung out together in the 1930s and 40s.  When my father tells stories about those days, it always sounds so idyllic.  I’m not sure if that’s why we had so many Mad  magazines around the house, but it probably played a part.

My brothers really liked Mad and then Cracked.  Stewart or Peter had a pile of them in their room.  I loved to look through at all the silliness.  Alfred E. Neuman, though not drawn by Don Martin, was very much a part of my childhood.  I just wish I had taken the “What, me worry?” part to heart.

I’ve laughingly told people that worrying is my spiritual gift.  I’m very good at it.  Yet, I know that this is not a gifting.  In fact, more and more, I’m thinking it borders on sin.  That tight squeezing in my stomach, so much so that I can’t eat, the dark thoughts, the sleeplessness — all this cannot be from God.

Sam understands my worry tendencies.  “Don’t worry, Mom,” he’ll tell me.  This is sort of like telling a child to stop crying or stop having a temper tantrum.  Words just don’t work.

It’s a little funny that Sam is the one who tells me that.  Sam is my child who hangs off cliffs on little ropes, who stands on pinnacles in Yosemite, who has arthritis in his shoulders and yet he climbs, who has suffered frostbite on his feet and yet still hikes, who has lost his passport, had his wallet stolen, couch surfs instead of renting an apartment.  If he’s gone sky-diving or bungee jumping, it wouldn’t surprise me, but he probably wouldn’t tell me because he knows I would worry.

God has been working on me and my worrying.  His voice is quieter than Sam’s and yet so much bigger.

On Saturday night while I was in Nashville, I got a phone call from Laurel.  She was crying.

“I can’t sleep,” she said.  “Daddy’s not home.”  She cried some more.

“Where’s Daddy?” I asked.  I knew he was going to Karl’s soccer game, but should have been home in plenty of time to put Laurel to bed.

“He’s at the hospital with Karl,” she said between tears.

“Put Jacob on the phone,” I told her.  I needed information and I wasn’t going to get it from a crying seven-year old.

Jacob explained that Karl had gotten knocked out at the soccer game and was in the Emergency Room in Norwich.  Laurel came back on the phone.  I told her to pick out a movie, a happy movie, and watch until daddy got home.  I told her I loved her and missed her and would be home Monday.

As soon as I got off the phone with her, I called Bud.  They were indeed at the hospital and Karl had a concussion.

The worry set in.  I understand the seriousness of a concussion and know that kids fail to understand that.  All sorts of worse case scenarios passed through my mind.

When I got back to my room and checked my Facebook I saw this picture of Karl.   A picture can be worth a thousand words.

But when I was on Facebook, Sam came on to tell me about his stolen wallet.  Another worry.

And then the next morning, my brother called to tell me that my mother was in the Emergency Room back home.  Worry, worry, worry.

Last night as I was coming in the house with my arms full of stuff — backpacks, groceries, wet towels, my wallet, my sweatshirt, some CDs — Laurel looked at me as she climbed out of the car and asked, “Can I carry something, Mom?”

“No, I’ve got it,” I said, trying to maneuver for a free hand to open the door to the house.

It was then that it hit me — what the whole Nashville experience was about.  I hold onto everything, trying to manage it all myself, and there is God saying, “Can I carry something?  Can I carry everything for you?”

In Nashville, I couldn’t do anything about Karl or Sam or my mother, except worry or pray.  The warm faith-filled atmosphere of  Hutchmoot allowed me to pray.  I just gave everything up to Him.

And may I say, the final day of Hutchmoot may have been the sweetest day of all.  Father Thomas McKenzie gave an amazing sermon on grace in the hard places.  Lunch was a wonderful time of fellowship with new friends. In the afternoon Justin Gerard and Russ Ramsey led an outstanding session on art.  Closing time was full of people sharing how Hutchmoot had touched them (I wanted to share, but literally couldn’t speak).  The whole thing ended with the most beautiful singing of The Doxology I have ever experienced.

What, me worry?  I can now see how much worrying robs me of the beauty of life.  Hutchmoot, Nashville and a series of unfortunate events showed me that.  I’ll probably still worry, but to quote Jonathon Rogers, we moved the ball down the field.

…casting all your anxieties on him, because he cares for you.

1 Peter 5:7