Do you ever worry about your kids?
Wide-awake 4am worry? Do you ever worry that you’ve screwed them up just enough that they’ll one day be sitting on someone’s couch lamenting just how bad a mom (or dad) you were? Do you ever worry that you missed the cues, the signs that something was needed, but you weren’t paying attention? Do you ever worry that you aren’t doing enough, and if you stop worrying, it’ll just be worse?
I’ve become so used to worrying, in fact, that I was afraid to stop worrying. As if somehow my worry was...helping.
Little secret…it wasn’t.
I’ve worried for weeks. For months. I’ve worried during the day, and I’ve worried during the night. I’ve worried when I’m at the gym, in the car, on my bike and while I’m making dinner.
Worry, like anger, is an emotion that erodes. My stomach started hurting. Headaches became more frequent. I became snappish and irritable, too obsessed with worry to be distracted by anything, or anyone, else.
But it’s hard to carry that kind of worry around for long. I finally had to drop that bag ‘o bricks and admit I simply couldn’t carry it any more. Too much, too long. Not helping, anyway.
I tried something new. Every time I’d start to worry, I prayed. (I know, I know, what a remarkable concept!)
I prayed. God, I entrust my children to your care. I know you love them more than I do. I know you have their best interests in mind, and that anything and everything they endure they will have you with them, by their side, every step of the way.
It became a mantra…over and over and over I prayed the same thing, all day long.
The funniest thing happened….
My kids were fine.
They were more than fine. They were great.
Sort of like God was up there saying…
See? I’ve got this.
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