Cares and collies, faith and folly

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?

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.

What the world needs now is another sports metaphor.

George MacDonald. Dorothy Sayers. Oswald Chambers. A.W. Tozer. St. Francis. Mrs. Lettie B. Cowman. Brother Lawrence. Jean-Pierre de Caussade. Agnes Sanford. Nope, these aren't the Brawl Saints or the Saints of Slaughter, they're my own personal saints. I've gone round and round with them and a few more, and their lessons have sunk in deeper than a good Ben-Gay rub.

Why roller derby? When I was young, the local independent TV station ran roller derby matches on Saturday nights, along with wrestling bouts and Black Belt Theater. A full evening of cheesy, over-the-top spectacle. The derby girls were my favorites: bold, gutsy, unstoppable women. In this last decade, grassroots derby teams have formed, reviving the sport, to my delight. As I went looking for an image to describe my struggles with faith and obedience, the derby offered lots more sparks than the usual tepid "walk with the Lord."

What about the raunchy track-names, the rowdy players and those costumes?
Yep, it's earthy, it's theatrical and a little bit ridiculous. But those girls play hard and pay in sweat, strains, bruises and worse. Their hearts are in the game. It's fierce fun.

And this is spiritual, how? It's not, but neither is wrestling; yet how often have we heard of someone "wrestling in prayer" or "wrestling with doubt," or with God? Personally, I'd rather feel the boards under my wheels, or the cement, and the breeze on my skin while I struggle. Feels like I'm getting somewhere, even if I'm only circling. And there's enough truth in the image of a pack of teammates who surge onward and battle opposition, that I'm going to ignore the less-than-apt elements of roller derby and roll with it.

Like the fact that most of these Saints are male. Well, yeah.
Hey, you take the team you're given.

So who's on the Team? Mostly souls I've only met in books, but hope to meet live in heaven. "Teammates" is a bit of a misnomer; they're more like coaches, teachers, or at least, senior members of the team, while I'm the noob. "Saints" may also seem incorrect to my gentle readers of a highly liturgical persuasion; I mean the term in a broader, "priesthood of all believers" sense. My Saints will roll out one by one in future posts. They will chasten and cheer us, call us on our fouls, and ground us in truth.

Strap on your skates and join me in the jam. We're on the move, and even though we're not going anywhere, we're getting better at it. Some day we'll clamber off the track for good, tougher and wiser, grateful and ready for our next adventure.