Storyz: When Worries Consume----

Robyn Lee’s life could be described with a single word: busy.
If she wasn’t mastering the triple lutz at the ice-skating ring, she was volunteering at her church’s nursery, or maintaining her 4.0 average, or cooking for her single mother, or researching the value of recycling, or—

Well, you get the idea.

Luckily, Robyn was one of those rare individuals who thrived on pressure. There was nothing she loved more than three, or even four deadlines, preferably on the same day. A whiz at time management and super responsible, she somehow managed to beat the odds and complete whatever task she’d set out to do—most of the time.

Then again, there were that late night spent writing that A+ paper she should have started a week ago.
That time she nearly got run over on her reckless bike ride to the store (she was due at the nursery in five minutes).
That time she skipped lunch (and dinner), to clean out a friend’s garage.

But those times were few and far between. All in all, Robyn held her haywire life together, without too many problems.
So why was she staring at herself in the mirror at 2:00 AM, wondering if she’d survive the next few days?

Big brown eyes with dark shadows under them stared back at her, and Robyn cupped her too-pale face in utter despair. The list taped up on the mirror taunted her, reminding her of all the things she’d left undone—and all the things she still needed to do.

Whatever possessed me to sign up for the bake-sale, the tutoring session, AND the after-church clean up squad?
Robyn grimaced as the thought ran through her mind. As much as she hated to admit it, she was guilty of the thing she detested above all else—carelessness.

No one knew better than Robyn the disasters that occurred whenever a person was too lazy to confirm an appointment, mark her calendar, or check their answering machine. She’d lectured her friends about the importance of being careful, had felt proud when others complimented her ability to juggle projects like a professional clown. Others messed up, not her! Not Robyn Lee, supergirl, able to get anything and everything done—

Oh, who am I kidding?

Wearily, she turned on the faucets and splashed the lukewarm water onto her face, trying in vain to erase the sleepiness from her eyes. A huge yawn racked her petite frame, and she slumped against the bathroom door.

I can’t sleep.
I have to finish grading those papers.
I have to download that recipe—the kids loved the vanilla shakes last year.
I have to—

Robyn’s eyes closed, and she slid towards the floor.
No!

Forcing herself to her feet, she opened the door and stumbled to her bedroom, where a neat stack of 4th grade math awaited her inspection. Dropping into her seat, she got to work.

*********

Stress. Worry. Anxiety.
It plagues all of us.

Whether the cause is that term paper we haven’t started, or the finals we haven’t studied for, or that recital that we know we’re going to mess up—the sweaty palm syndrome is one both familiar and dreaded. And it doesn’t play fair either.

I’ve lost count of all the times I’ve worked hard at something—only to be assailed by the fear that my efforts weren’t enough. Worry has no prejudice—it gets the perfectionist who spent hours preparing as well as the slacker who just remembered the project.

Recently, I had a piano recital. Now, I’ve been playing the piano for eight years, and I’ve never been able to let go of my fear of playing in public. At home, my fingers fly and I can truly enjoy the music, but place a few people in the audience and my shoulders cramp, my forehead dampens, and my fingers suddenly feel like overgrown sausages.
Basically, I get stage fright.

Usually, I overcome it. By the time I get on stage, I’ve developed a sort of mental barrier that refuses to let me imagine all the possible failures and embarrassments. But this time, for some reason, that mental barrier crumbled. Maybe it was because I was playing a six-page Mozart—the hardest piece I’ve ever attempted. Maybe it was because I’d just finished the CM tests and was still stressed about the results. Whatever the reason, my heart was pounding as I stood before the audience and bowed—as stiff as a log and twice as clumsy.

I sat down.
I played.

And guess what?
I messed up. Multiple times. My piece never took off and ended up sounding like a half-hearted exercise—definitely not the light-hearted variations Mozart intended it to be.

On the way home, I stared out the window, relieved that the ordeal was over, but also disappointed. The worries I’d felt seemed trivial and immature, and I started beating myself up for allowing them to get the best of me.

Leo F. Buscaglia once said, “Worry never robs tomorrow of its sorrow, it only saps today of its joy.” I’d let my fear of messing up keep me from truly playing my best—and I knew it.

Worrying is a lose-lose situation. There’s no way to use or manipulate it to give yourself a boost—trust me, I’ve tried.
If I imagine the worse thing that could possibly happen in order to “prepare” myself, I end up doing worse than I probably would have done if I’d dropped the gloomy mindset.
If I complain about my worries, it just depresses the listener without easing my own burdens.

There’s no benefit to worrying, so why do I do it? Why is our world so full of stressed out people?

In Matthew 6, Jesus looks at his disciples and sees their anxieties. Maybe Peter was wondering whether or not he’d be able to pay for the leak in his fishing boat. Maybe Judas was stressing over the finances. Maybe John was anxious about Jesus’ health. Or maybe Jesus just knew that 2000 years later, we’d be flipping the pages of His word, praying for something to relieve us of our worries.

Whatever the reason, Jesus says, “"Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink; or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more important than food, and the body more important than clothes? Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they? Who of you by worrying can add a single hour to his life?”

His message is clear.
We’re not to worry, because God, our Heavenly Father, is in charge.
Besides, worrying isn’t doing any good anyway.

The next time you feel your heart racing, your body tensing, and your shoulders tightening—stop.
Just stop.
Take a deep breath.

“God, I’m stressing out about ____, and I know your in charge, but I’m really worried. Please, help me to relax and give me peace.”
God is truly amazing.
He’ll take care of your problems.

***********

So far, everything was going fine. Robyn felt her stomach growl, and looked around anxiously, hoping no one would notice. In her rush to get to the store for supplies, she’d skipped breakfast, and now her stomach was reminding her of it.

“Here, sweetie,” a weathered old woman with a tray of delicious smelling cookies handed her one and winked, “My special recipe.”

Robyn smiled, thanked her, and took the treat. It was soft, lightly peppered with sugar—and still warm.
Thank you, God.

Before her was the steady hum of activity. Mothers set up the various snacks, chatting and laughing over each item and arranging them with meticulous care. Children ran around, looking at the goodies with wide, eager eyes.
Robyn felt her heart fill with satisfaction, and something else.

Gratitude.

She’d been certain of a miserable day. After all, she was low on sleep, low on food, and low on energy. But, for some reason, the dominant emotion in her was a strange sort of joy.

The weariness had disappeared from her body after the impromptu nap on the way home from the supply shop.
The vanilla shakes were a hit.
The papers were graded and ready to be handed back out.

Robyn smiled.
Thank you, God.
Thank you, God.
Thank, you God.