Don't Hurry Worry

"Do not be anxious about anything;
but in everything, by prayer and petition,
with thanksgiving, present your requests to God."
Philippians 4: 6

       If worry were chocolate, I'd weigh—it's none of your business. Let's just say I'm a professional worrier, and have been since my feet dangled from a chair.

God will take care of everything.

I know that. But giving up worry is as easy as giving up coffee . . . cheesecake with cherries . . . biscuits drowning in sausage gravy. 

It's not that I don't trust God. But I figure He has to be swamped, what with problems in Asia, Africa, and the Middle East . . . Certainly He doesn't need to be bothered by a bevy of everyday concerns rising up from Overland Park, Kansas. Worries about Emily's history, Carson's math, and Laurel's spelling tests; my husband's fatigue from dealing with 700 phone calls at work before noon; or my penchant for impatience because I'm not a best-selling author—yet.

So what if I handle a few things on my own? Is that so bad?

Yup.

But I'm an independent woman! I can install a light fixture without shocking myself, I can mow the lawn with only one five-minute nap behind the azalea bush, and I can whip up homemade treats for Girl Scouts with ten minute's notice (take the Chips Ahoy cookies out of the package and place them in a Tupperware container). Surely God likes independent people.

Nope.

I discovered this truth when the ravioli boiled over.

It was the end of a soap-opera day. Not the typical soap opera where my long-lost sister appears on my doorstep, a nympho-schizo who ran away with my fourth husband once removed while my evil neighbor plots to torch my house because my clothes are whiter than hers (surely, you jest). That, I could have handled.

It was a day when the cat piddled in the philodendron. We were out of milk and bread and eggs, forcing us to eat Doritos and orange juice for breakfast. Somehow, the kids managed to find a matching pair of shoes, and most of their homework. One off to school. Two. Three.

I had just scooped up Pepper with all intentions of having a serious discussion detailing the differences between potting soil and kitty litter when Laurel called from school. She'd forgotten her library book—which was already two days overdue. She couldn't check out Little House on the Prairie until she returned Little House in the Big Woods. And her book report was due in three days. Grabbing the book and my car keys, I wondered if any modern family was as organized as Pa and Ma Ingalls. The world could be so... trying.

After returning the book, I stopped at the school door. The sky had turned from blue to blanched—accompanied by a torrent of wet stuff. Never fear, my umbrella was . . . in the car. I made a run for it, stifling the urge to rotate slowly in the rain, saving my clothes a trip through the washer at some later date.

While I was in a library sort of mood, I headed for the main branch. I needed to research the effects of oleander for the mystery I was writing. As the weather progressed from raining cats and dogs to dumping an entire pet store on my car, the windshield wipers chose to deviate from their normal 4/4 rhythm. They tried a quick waltz . . . before giving up out of rhythmic frustration.

Brake lights! Oh, no! Whew . . . a near miss. I collected my scattered wits and pulled into a gas station to replace the wiper blades. Unfortunately, they cost more than the seventy-three cents I dug out of the glove compartment. My checkbook was at home. Charge it.

The library, groceries, lunch, laundry, writing.

Finally, a hot bath. I was just sinking into the steaming water, having discovered a way to get my knees and torso warm at the same time, when the phone rang.

It was a neighbor near my son's school. Carson fell off his bike. His arm was broken.

I wrung out my hair, pulled on some clothes, and raced out the door. I found Carson sitting on the curb, his right arm held gently with his left hand. A few brave tears escaped. His, and mine.

Off to the hospital where he got x-rayed, delayed and okayed—and became the proud owner of a fluorescent green cast.

I zoomed home, planted Carson on the couch armed with the remote control. I considered making him chicken soup (feed a cold, starve . . . an arm?) I wondered how he would do homework with his right hand encased in its glow-in-the-dark prison.

I headed for the kitchen to start dinner. I tossed a rock of frozen hamburger into the microwave and punched enough buttons to launch the space shuttle. Nothing happened.

"No! You can't do this to me!" I yelled, punching the sequence again in case I wasn't speaking coherent micro-ese during my first attempt. Zippo, no zappo.

Oldest daughter Emily bopped through the kitchen on her way to work at the local ice cream store. "See ya at eight," she said.

"Don't you want some dinner?"

"I'll eat something at work."

Chalk up one serving from the dairy, fat, and sugar food groups.

The clock said Mark would be home in fifteen minutes. I hoped he wouldn't mind ravioli with meat sauce a' la iceberg. I leaned against the counter and closed my eyes.

"Whatcha doing, Mom?" asked Laurel.

"I'm trying to remember how I cooked hamburger before the invention of the microwave."

"How 'bout the stove?" she suggested.

Cocky kid.

I pulled myself out of my catatonia and followed her suggestion, browning the frozen hamburger in one pan while water boiled for the ravioli in another.

The doorbell rang. Another lawn service wanted to take care of us. Was that a hint?

That's when it happened. That's when the ravioli boiled over.

And that's when I realized this particular independent woman couldn't do it alone.

I removed the pan from the burner and shut off every appliance in the kitchen hoping to prevent further mutiny. I escaped. To the bathroom. I locked myself in. Voluntary exile.

"Mom?" Laurel said, tapping on the door. "Are you all right?"

I took a deep breath and held back a primal scream.

"I will be," I said.

She left me alone. But I wasn't alone.

It's not a noble position, sitting on the toilet seat next to a sink that needs scrubbing, a mirror that needs shining, and a used Kleenex next to, but not in, the waste basket nearby. But God didn't mind since He finally had me where He wanted me—ready to listen.

"God, it's too much!"

I didn't hear a celestial voice echoing off the faucet. I didn't experience a flash of light as God granted me His revelation. God's voice came from within and was as comforting as a hug.

"It's about time you came to Me," He said.

That's when I gave my worries to God. I relinquished the pesky cat and the freshly fertilized philodendron. I gave Him Laurel's forgetfulness, Carson's arm, and Emily's junk food dinner. I asked Him to take care of the weedy lawn and the pasta-encrusted stove. And I asked if He had any good ideas for dinner—now late and getting later.

And He answered. Not with words but with feelings. Serenity. Peace. Everything would be all right.

I transferred the Kleenex from the floor to the waste basket, re-entered the world, and pulled out a phone book. I ordered pizza—with extra cheese.

God approves of pepperoni.

***

Want more inspirational humor? Check out 
Save Me, God! I Fell in the Carpool: Help, Hope, and Humor for Drowning Moms

The Wails of Summer

 “Love is patient, love is kind.”

I Corinthians 13: 4

     I adored having my three kids around the house all summer.  Their muted footfalls fluttered through the house like a scattering of rose petals.  Their sunny voices asked, "Is there anything we can do to help you, Mother Dear?"

     Welcome to Fantasy Island.
     I know why Labor Day is at the end of summer.  It's the day mothers question whether the fruit of  their labor pains was worth the price.  Ask us the question on Memorial Day and we'll bore you with sentimental memories of our child's first tooth or our wistful tears as they trotted off to kindergarten. Ask the question on Labor Day and we'll growl, "I'll give you three for a buck-ninety-eight.  Will that be cash, check or credit card?"
     School days, schools days, dear old Golden Rule days...

     The Golden Rule is mentioned in those lyrics to remind our children of the existence of rules.  You know.  Those guidelines parents set up in June, revise in July and throw in the trash compactor in August?

     You may not go swimming until one hour after eating. 
        One-half hour.
           Here, take a sandwich with you.
              Come inside when the street lights turn on.
                 Here's a flashlight.
                    Be sure to lock up.
     To be fair, the summer holiday involves compromise on both parts.  I was used to eating Snickers for lunch and the kids were used to pestering an adult who is unaware of their wide repertory of juvenile cons.  So, I stocked up on peanut butter and pot pies and the kids became buddies with the retired couple who lived down the street. (I sent the couple an anonymous thank-you bouquet every Monday, signing the enclosure, Your Eternal Friend.)
     Summertime proves to be costly for those families where both parents work outside the home.  Day-care expenses make you ask:  Not only are the kids out of school but I have to pay money for the privilege?

     Those of us who work at home dream of day-care.  It's a bit hard to concentrate when there's a trail of mildewing beach towels bisecting the house, the smell of burnt cookies wafting out of the kitchen, and the pulse of Meatloaf (the singer not the dinner) making me contemplate the construction of a stockade in the back yard.  (I wonder if the library has a how-to book, perhaps shelved under child psychology?)

     I should clarify.  I love my kids. Cross my heart and hope to . . . but they make me tired.  Lethargic.  Catatonic.
     I considered buying three season tickets to the Royals.  Let's see . . . 81 home games at four hours a game equals 324 hours when my darlings won't be asking me The Question.
     And what is The Question?  Come on parents, you can ace this quiz.
     Is The Question::
A.  We're tired, Mom, so what can we do now?
B.  We're hungry, Mom, so what can we do now?
C.  We're bored, Mom, so what can we do now?
     The Question is:  All, or any of the above depending on the barometric pressure, the peanut butter deficit, and the number of neighbor kids glaring at me from the doorway.
     On average, I hear, and attempt to answer The Question two hundred and eighty-three times.  I started the summer with good intentions – and good answers. 
     "Ask Erin over. Play school. Read a book."
     But around the seventieth asking (during Day 4 of summer) my answers, and my patience, began to show signs of sanity withdrawal.
     "Are you sure Erin's parents don't want another child? Go pick the lock on the school. Watch Forensic Files."

     I answered Question #274 with a primal grunt.  In response to Question #275, I snarled.  Intent on testing their mother's new vocabulary to the fullest, my children continued through Question #283 when they noticed my incisors appeared to be sharpening.  I never heard The Question again.  Hey, I don't raise no dumb kids.

     As the end of summer glows on the horizon and the aura of back-to-school entices, I realize there will be a time when I'll give anything to hear the thud of elephant feet and the wails of, "But, Mom, do we have to?"  I'll look back on these chaotic summers with a bittersweet reflection.  Guilt will sit on my shoulders until I admit my insensitivity.
     Ah, what the heck.  I'll risk it.

***

Want more inspirational humor? Check out 
Save Me, God! I Fell in the Carpool: Help, Hope, and Humor for Drowning Moms

Getting Ahead of the Game

"Offer hospitality to one another without grumbling.

Each one should use whatever gift 
he has received to serve others,

faithfully administering God's grace in its various forms."

I Peter 4: 9-10

     I always vow this will be the year I get ahead of the game—whatever that game might be. 
     I'm tired of procrastinating.  I'm tired of feeling the pressure of should-dos. I'm tired of being tired. So . . . my solution is to embrace the Boy Scout motto:  be prepared. Ahead of time. A little at a time.

     The first test occurs right away as I make preparations for some family visitors who are staying two nights. I need to be domestic and clean and cook.
     Unfortunately, none of these attributes are my attributes, unless I’m in the mood, and I’ve long realized those moods can easily leapfrog months. Or years. 
     But this year, with my new resolution in tow, I vow that I will get ahead of the game and get the entire thing under control. D-day (done-day) is five days away, when the guests will arrive.
     Day #1:  I psych myself up to do it right. 
     However, as the day wears on and I haven't actually done anything beyond thinking about doing something, I end up feeling very much like Scarlett O’Hara:  I’ll do it tomorrow.  After all, tomorrow is another day. 
     Day #2:  I look at my to-do list and divide the house into battle zones:  basement, main floor, top floor. When the kids were little, I used to draw squares in the carpet of  their bedrooms with a finger, telling them to “Clean up this square” in an attempt to make the chaos seem more manageable. This might have been a helpful memory until I acknowledge the first floor of my house is mostly wood.
      Instead I collect dirty dishes from all three floors and fill the dishwasher. 
     I forget to turn it on.

     Day #3:   Feeling guilty for yesterday, I make a menu and a grocery list.  I even recopy the list according to sections in the grocery store:  Produce, Dairy, and the Fat-Sugar-Chemical aisle.  Knowing this is above and beyond any “getting ahead of the game” scenario I ever aspired to, I feel smug and done for the day but . . . I refuse to give into the temptation and actually go to the grocery store and buy the things I need.
     It takes two carts.
     Back home, enticed by the food in the Fat-Sugar-Chemical aisle, I make lunch. And since that makes a mess, I dive in and cook the menu items that can be frozen until the weekend. Adrenalin kicks in. Four hours later I have made sweet & sour chicken, coffee cake, muffins, crumb cookies, and a monstrous mess. I wonder if Merry Maids has a 911 number . . .
     I clean up and collapse on the couch.  I fall asleep to "Law & Order" reruns.

     Day #4:  I remember the Proverbs 31 Woman (sigh) and try to take verse seventeen to heart:  "She sets about her work vigorously; her arms are strong for her tasks."  We'll see about that.
     The basement beckons.  As I vacuum, I notice a path in the carpet the cats have made on their way to their Poo-Room. I decide to force them into a new path by pulling out a bar stool, relocating a potted plant, and moving a footstool in the direct line of their padding little feet. I wait for a cat to run the gauntlet. Pepper complies, and I feel momentarily victorious, until I realize a new path will be pressed into the carpet. 
     I also realize as I vacuum the stairway, that the felines are not the only guilty party. Looking down upon my work, I see my own footprints in the plush. Because there is no solution, and because my back hurts, I retire to the couch and watch "Law & Order" reruns.
     Day #5 -- D-Day:  I wallow in the fact the wood floor cannot leave track marks like the carpet, but grieve that it produces a community of dust bunnies. I do my best rounding them up before proceeding to the second floor where bathrooms and clean sheets beckon. I try to imitate a fabric softener commercial by making a sheet float through the air to fall neatly on the bed. I only succeed in getting it caught in the ceiling fan and knocking over a lamp. But I make my mother proud by making everything fresh and new—including hospital corners.
     It’s nearly time for them to arrive. I'm sweaty and want a nap. If I ignore the need for makeup, I could probably slip in ten minutes of rest. I close my eyes (to afternoon "Law & Order" reruns) and am nearly asleep when a kitty jumps up on my chest. From my position on the couch I notice the entry light has cobwebs. The cat jumps to safety as I take care of it. 
     And the windows need washing . . . Hopefully, no one will be tempted to look through them.

     And my roots need touching up . . . If I comb my hair just right or wear a hat . . .
     The doorbell rings. And so the weekend begins. The house is filled with family who bring their coats, suitcases, and oft-heard stories, which makes me realize no one is looking at the house anyway.  We are too busy talking and being.
     The fellowship is awesome, the food edible, and time flies. 
     As they leave I vow to add something to my “get ahead of the game” scenario:  don’t worry so much about anything because my family don’t care about kitty tracks, they accept whatever level of scrubbed tub I can manage, and they’d settle for McDonald’s if that’s what I chose to serve.  

     They love me and I love them, and our time together is what’s important.  "If we love one another, God lives in us and his love is made complete in us." (I John 4: 12)
     Knowing that is truly getting ahead of the game.

***

Want more inspirational humor? Check out 
Save Me, God! I Fell in the Carpool: Help, Hope, and Humor for Drowning Moms