Worried.

My Paternal Grandmother was a worrier.

I remember swinging by my legs at the top of our swingset, delighting in her moans of protest. I was convinced that even though the family line ran strong in my blood, I would never ever worry half as much as she did. Simply ridiculous, how much she worried. Besides, how can you have any fun if you are constantly worried about something?

My Mother is a worrier. And no, she obviously is not of the same family line as this particular grandmother, but she worries all the same. Up late at night, even in the middle of the night, unforeseen horrors and enemies abound.

Methinks the odds are against me.

Methinks that it has absolutely nothing to do with family lines and everything to do with my vocation in life.

Lately, I have found myself in the role of The Worrier. It really started way back when Action Man was born. We lived in Tampa (haven't heard that story? Maybe another time... it's a doozy) and the lady at the supermarket made some comment about how "pretty" Action Man was with his large hazel eyes and long eyelashes. She warned me to keep close watch on him, or someone may snatch him. The look in her eyes frightened me.

I never went back to that particular grocery store again.

Here at home in our "safe" little neighborhood, I worry. I'm anxious when the boys ride their bikes around our loop, or when Little Dear accompanies them. I fret when the 3 girls walk halfway around to visit some little girls on our street, and I send Sports Fan to supervise their trek. I jolt awake in the middle of the night, heart pounding, re-living the time when Little Love went running down the sidewalk, not seeing the car backing out of the driveway, the driver of which did not see her.

And I worry about my friends. This especially is what has been occupying my mind lately. As they tell me their struggles and I add them to my ever-growing list of prayer intentions, my heart becomes heavy. I glare at God in frustration. Life is so hard already. Living out His will for our lives requires so much. We are all striving for holiness, does it really have to be this difficult?


But then I remember.

Our crosses are lovingly hand-carved personally for us. The weight of another person's cross would be too much for me to bear. And just because a particular person's struggle seems to be too tailor-made, like rubbing salt in an old wound, I need to pause in my indignation and pray. God is calling that person in an extraordinary way. He will exact a healing akin to the raising of Lazarus from the dead. If only that person would respond by taking up that cross and plod along behind Him.

Although I cannot be Simon of Cyrene and lift the cross from their shoulders, I can be Veronica, and offer comfort and prayers along the way.

Knowing what lies on the other side of this suffering illuminates our lives with joy and eternal hope.

:)