Worried About Worry
Worry is plain-ol’ sin. I know.
It’s lack of trust in our trustworthy God.
Doubt doubling down.
And pride pushing aside praise.
Do the Saved Worry?
Don’t get me wrong. I’m saved by the blood of Jesus. Bound for the Promised Land. A daughter of the King of Heaven. And I’m one of those victors at the back of the Book.
But may I get dreadfully honest? I’ve wrestled for years with a wily enemy. He scoped me out when I was girl, spied on me at playtime. At school. On the bus. And at slumber parties.
Not that he was particularly astute, mind you. I was easy to read.
The Worry-lessness of Childhood
Now let’s go play.
Worrywart-hood didn’t happen when my brother drove his small car under a parked 18-wheeler and clung to life, comatose, for a month. My thirteen-year-old assumptions were called into question, I admit. Butch was accident prone. That was all.
Nor a year later when my daughter was born and I checked her breathing–her chest rising and falling–at midnight … three a.m. … and again at four.
No, I had learned how to worry long before.
Learning to Worry
Early one morning when I was fourteen, I awoke with my mother sitting on my bed, crying.
“What about him?”
I tried in the silence to imagine Daddy abed with a thermometer in his mouth, but the image wouldn’t stay put. Daddy wasn’t sick … ever. But then again, he could be…. Couldn’t he?
Daddy wasn’t Jesus Himself. Granted. But he was mighty close. So … OK. Daddy’s sick.
But why in the world would that steal a moment of Mother’s sleep?
“What’s wrong with him?”
“Muscular dystrophy. Doc says he has two years.”
The Effects of Worry
But the colors faded to gray.
They gathered into a great boulder that followed me around, waiting to drop atop the house Daddy built.
As it turned out, muscular dystrophy wasn’t the culprit. Nor was ALS. Or muscular sclerosis. Physicians couldn’t put a label on it. But I could.
It was a ten-year knot in my stomach. A twinge when the phone rang. A pang when I hugged Daddy, bony and frail. It was a stab in my heart at the sight of my hero, wheelchair bound, bent over at the table to reach his plate.
And it was battling to defend one thin line of hope. Daddy taught a Bible class from his electric wheelchair, his body and head braced straight. Somehow he would keep breathing. I just knew he would. (Tweet That)
Until he couldn’t.
You see, Satan got a foothold that day in my girlhood when Mother sobbed at my bedside. I’ve been shoving him out ever since. Just when I think I’ve kicked in his boot toe for good, he smashes the door wide open. And here we go again.
Thankfully I don’t have to call out my own sullied name. At the name of Jesus even the demons tremble. My only defense is the Holy Spirit. At the sight of Him, the devil flees. No weapon or armor can stand against the Lord God Almighty.
But–oh–how my flesh craves the delusion of strength, the power of my will. How foolish.
Jesus’ Three-Part Solution
There’s one way and one way alone to abide in peace, and that’s to abide in Jesus. In Him I am fed. In Him I am fulfilled. And in Him I am satisfied.
Man shall not live on bread alone. Luke 4:4
Worship the Lord your God and serve him only. Luke 4:8
Do not put the Lord your God to the test. Luke 4:12
Dear Lord, you promised your children peace–not as the world gives, but as only you can provide. Peace is among the fruits of the Spirit. So why do your children war? Why do we battle and struggle and fear? On Thanksgiving Day and everyday, help us make room for the Spirit of Peace–in our minds and hearts and homes. Make us childlike in our trust of You. Hollow us out so we can receive more of you, the Prince of Peace. ~ For Jesus’ sake
Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled and do not be afraid.