The command, "Be careful for nothing," is unlimited, and so is the
expression, "Casting all your care on him." If we cast our burdens on
another, can they continue to press on us? If we bring them away with
us from the Throne of Grace, it is evident we do not leave them there.
With respect to myself, I have made this one test of my prayers: if after
committing anything to God, I can, like Hannah, come away and have
my mind no more sad, my heart no more pained or anxious, I look
upon it as one proof that I have prayed in faith; but if I bring away my
burden, I conclude that faith was not in exercise.
--Dr. Payson, in Streams in the Desert, April 24 entry
I was a teenager before I realized some people took faith seriously. I laughed out loud. Christ as the salvation of my life I could accept, but all the details of that life were on my watch. A life free of anxiety? The idea seemed ludicrous: impractical, impossible. You might as well skate around a track at full tilt wearing a blindfold.
I grew up believing in the power of worry. Oh, I wouldn't have called it that; I didn't have the perspective. Everybody said worry was bad, but everybody I knew worried. I was a pro by fourteen. When fear seized me, I'd grab hold of it right back. Sometimes I'd escape into books or TV, but mostly I didn't let my attention lag: no problem was going to slip up like a sneaker wave and overwhelm me. I had a worst-case scenario for every occasion. Fear management dominated my life; I felt like a bunny rabbit locked in an Airstream with a pack of coyotes.
Didn't I pray? Sure, the dramatic pleadings of a young teen. I hadn't yet learned that loaded into the word "faith" are the words "confidence," "abandonment," and "trust." Believe that I have received the things I ask for, before I see them happen? Ha. My prayer was whining.
Well, one grows up, and the emotions blot off some of their drama-queen makeup. Teen fears bow out and adult concerns stride up to take their place. We wear worry like a necktie, an emblem of responsibility. We wish it wouldn't choke us, but we'd feel undressed without it. Besides, we have an obligation to share the burdens of others. There's that operation Dad has to have, there's Grandma's cancer and our friend's lost job.
We pray and we worry.
Hey, if you're in trouble, I want to do something. I feel disloyal if I don't fret for you. You'd do the same for me, I bet.
As a teen I had a "teddybear collie" (English Shepherd) who never allowed me to run across the lawn without giving chase. She'd seize the hem of my jeans, growl and tug me to a halt. Poor thing: with no sheep to herd, all that instinct and energy got misplaced. Worry helps me bear burdens as well as Misty would help me run the hundred-yard dash.
Prayer is our work. Worry works us over. Effective prayer chooses to believe God's promises, and makes use of tools such as praise and creative visualization, as I've learned from Agnes Sanford (teacher of healing prayer) and other teammates.
When fear attacks us, can we leave our loved ones--and our own burdens--in the Great Shepherd's care? Or do we suspect He cares for them less than we do?
"Be careful for nothing." Except, we're supposed to walk circumspectly! Not to pluck daisies, sing and stroll while the sun warms our closed eyelids and the cliff drops away just ahead of our feet, as if we were the Fool on a deck of Tarot cards. Right?
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| I don't go for fortune-telling, but you can't beat the Greater Trumps as archetypes. |
There's a little dog who leaps alongside the Fool; maybe it's the cares he ignores, nipping at his attention; maybe it's a shepherd harrying him out of danger. Maybe both. Before care festers into worry, it has one use I can see: as a reminder of what to lift and leave in God's hands.
I'll admit it: strolling in sun-blinded bliss appeals to me very much. Deep trust resembling that kind of bliss is on my list of things to do. To be. But right now I'm in battle, and I recognise that worry's an enemy, nothing less. Nothing more.
