For the second month in a row, something was growing inside me. Worry. Anxiety. It hits me and gnaws at me. When I was younger, I hated anything that would cause anticipation, because it meant stomach aches for the days leading up to whatever event, be it good or bad.
As a child, I learned to hide my worries, at least from those most responsible for said worry-ing situation or those most impacted by whatever might happen. Instead, I prayed a lot. And told myself that when I grew up and was in charge of my destiny (ha!), I wouldn’t have to worry, because I wouldn’t make dumb choices that would result in potentially worrying situations. How naïve and arrogant.
In college I discovered the joy of being able to control much of my world. I excelled in my studies, resulting in professors who went to bat for me. In four years, I prided myself on only having one all-nighter, the result of three professors who didn’t consult with me before scheduling the same due date of the semester projects for their respective classes. I obsessively scheduled my life, planned everything and loved every minute of it. For the first time in my life, I was relaxed, in a tense sore of way.
I also discovered the joy of having a friend in whom I could confide. Who told me to get over worries and put them where they belonged—in God’s hands. Perhaps it was her missionary upbringing combined with her South American upbringing, but she approached life with such c’est la vie that I envied her. She just rolled with life. She planned, but she also took time to take pictures, read a book for fun, and listen to country music really loud.
And now I think I’m grown up. In charge of my own destiny? Never. Decisions that are only mine? Nope. Instead, I have a husband and five children who rely on my making good decisions and avoiding catastrophes on a regular basis. And when I’m not sure that a decision was good? And when I think catastrophe might be waiting around the next corner? Yep, here comes worry again.
In Respectable Sins, Jerry Bridges shows without question that anxiety is a sin. This past Sunday I read and re-read that chapter, trying to force my heart to understand what my head was reading. (I’d type out the quotes, but Ray has it with him at work today.) I returned to our room to pray about it and heard a still small voice—"Talk to Ray about it.”
I try not to burden Ray with my worries, because most of the time they are the neurotic fancies of a (I hope) recovering control freak. While he’s seen me at my worst in the nearly 15 years we’ve been married, I don’t always like to remind him of my neurotic side. I also know that he’s carrying real burdens that have real concerns. He doesn’t need my imaginings. I usually wait until after the worry has been shown to be unfounded and then share how silly I’ve been. But Sunday I listened and asked for a private session in our room.
I shared my fear, my voice shaking irrationally. And he gently reminded me that I had worried this same fear to pieces a while ago. It hadn’t happened then. There was no rational reason to think it would happen now. He bore my burden. I physically felt the heaviness lift. Why had I been worrying this for nearly a week?
Marriage brings with it many challenges. I am constantly faced with my self-centered nature as I fight the princess-complex I was born with. And yet in the midst of fighting the me-first-itis, I fight this sharing of burdens. I want to say that I can handle this on my own. “Need help? No, not me, no thanks. You take care of your burdens and I’ll take care of mine…and yours. And in doing so, I’ll be the more spiritual.” So I add pride to my self-centered little world.
On Sunday, I enjoyed one of the perks of marriage. A burden shared. A smile, somewhat indulgent, a hug, and a reminder that God was in control. The knot in my stomach was replaced with wave of love. For my husband. For my God who loved me through my husband’s gentle care.
