"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.
