The Pride of Worrying

I've never labeled myself as being a prideful person. To me "pride" was always depicted in the egomaniacal braggy braggart types. Pride is sinful. Pride is to be abhorred. Pride leads to ruin (Proverbs 16:18). Pride will get you nowhere (Proverbs 26:12). Pride is a sign of very high self-esteem. So this couldn't be me, since my self-esteem resides somewhere between your shoes and the door mat.

But, it turns out I am prideful. Maybe not in the Webster's Dictionary sense of the word, but in a deceitfully hidden offshoot definition of the term. You see, I'm a worrier.

Worry might seem like the antonym of pridefulness to the naked eye but, if you look a little closer (like all of us worriers tend to do), you'll see exactly what I mean. 

When doing my Bible study yesterday morning, I realized that worry produces the very "Me! Me! Me!" mentality that we often use when describing egomaniacs. "How is this going to effect me?", "I can't do this.", "This is just too much for me to handle." Worry, worry, worry. It may not be boastful in the very least, but it's certainly a preoccupation with self.

I'm a champion worrier from a world-class bloodline of them. People who say they strive on stress are an enigma to me. Stress just gives me the scoots! I've always strove to pursue the simple life depicted in I Thessalonians 4:11, "...make it your ambition to lead a quiet life and attend to your own business and work with your hands..." That's the loveliest of prospects to me. Favor calmness, mind your business and keep busy. But, being the champion worrier that I am, I can even screw up the simple life.

Someone once told me that I handled a certain life-or-death situation that our family once faced so well and that I was so strong during this time. I was flattered, but this comment also left me stunned. Mainly because my memory of the same event had me running to the bathroom to throw up the entire contents of my stomach and then praying as fervently as a new convert on death row, because I didn't know what else to do. What this person witnessed was actually just God's answer to my sloppy prayers. My being numb by fear, producing the image of calm and His granting of that Peace That Passes All Understanding that held me upright and helped my legs to move forward and my spirit not to faint.

The Peace That Passes All Understanding has been God's greatest gift to me during the hardest points in my life. But, I seem to let it slip away during the typical day to day needs. My habit of worrying is the ultimate peace-blocker. I don't know why I choose to overanalyze and worry over the simplest things. And, yes, it's a choice! Don't fool yourself into thinking otherwise.

My current worry, of course, is my job search. When the office I worked for closed down in February, it was a very stressful time but also a release into freedom. I had become frustrated in working the same position for eleven years straight and all upward mobility had begun to slide backward. I was granted seventeen weeks of severance and I saw it as a time to unwind, relax, pursue creative endeavors and then eventually pursue a new career path.

Now that I'm down to my last six weeks of mini-retirement, the pressure is on to figure all of this out and quick. I cringe at listings resembling anything to do with my last position, but find those are the only positions that I'm qualified for with the job market in my area being very sparse. The spirit of common sense would remind me that I liked my job and that it wasn't until the wheels of the office closure were set into motion that my job duties started being taken away and reassigned to other offices, leaving me frustrated. And, all of those other industries that seemed so appealing at the time, merely on the fact of being different, now turn out to be much less intriguing upon further research. It's time for big life decisions. And, those are the kind I have no idea how to make.

Instead, I worry that I'll finally get into a new job and end up hating it. I worry that I'll spend a decade at the next place and wind up frustrated again. I worry that my new boss will be mean, that my new coworkers will be gossipy, that I will be sexually harassed, that I won't like the hours, that I won't get good medical coverage, that my breaks won't be at convenient times to accommodate my Hypoglycemia... The list goes on and on and gets more ridiculous as it goes. But, the biggest worry of all is that I can't see the future and that's scary.

The curse of having a colorful imagination is that you will find incredible ways to misuse it. I haven't once overthought the possibility of being overpaid, meeting nice people, having flexibility in new roles, learning something not only new, but interesting. Why is it that those thoughts don't come as easily? I'd like to blame the hardwiring, but knowing that The One who wired me does not want any of us to think that way, I have to take the credit. Or blame. Me. Me. Me. Me!

So moving forward I'd like to welcome Peace into my life, all day, every day. Not just during the hard times or when I realize that I need it. I'd like to start to using my imagination for good and not evil. I'd like to pray more sloppy and emotionally, like I do in hard times, because it's at least sincere. And, I'm going to try to learn to choose not to worry. It will be a hard habit to break... but, my tummy will thank me.

Easter Traditions

Easter begins with an itchy dress.

Throw in an optional bonnet, patent leather shoes, some lacy gloves and a pair of white tights (that are sure to run and have dirt stains on the knees by the time lunch is served) and you've got our childhood Easter tradition.

No one knew this better than my grandma, because she's the one who started it all.

In the weeks leading to every Easter (and Christmas, as well) she'd wrangle up the grandkids, one family at a time, and take us to Sears for the traditional dress shopping spree.

In the earlier days of her grandparenthood, she used to simply shop on her own and deliver a pile of taffeta and scratchy lace to each house before the fateful morning.  I, unknowingly, changed things (at an age when I was too young to even remember) by scratching at my fluffy sleeve, making a sour face and proclaiming, "I no like'it!" during one such dress rehearsal.

Since that day, she conceded that not every girl loves ruffles, straw hats and lace gloves (fortunately for her, my sister and cousin loved hats, ribbons and gloves) and from that year forward, she would take us along to assist her in her purchases.

Easter morning always started with the baskets.  We used the same ones every year.  Carefully dying our eggs the night before, leaving them in a bed of plastic grass and out on the dining room table for the "Easter Bunny" to easily find (We had the same "don't ask, don't tell" policy with the Easter Bunny as we did with Santa Claus.) The air, by then, thick with the smell of vinegar.  (I, to this day, associate the smell of vinegar with The Resurrection.)

In the morning, we'd rush downstairs to find a toy or two, a chocolate bunny (hollow milk chocolate or white chocolate, for me) and a random assortment of additional chocolates, Peeps and jelly beans.

We'd then down our traditional Sunday morning breakfast of Pillsbury cinnamon rolls and Kool-Aid, hurry our sticky selves into our itchy dresses, and rush on off to Sunday school.

Easter morning was a different kind of church than we'd witness every other Sunday.  There were, not only more hats in attendance than usual, but many more people in attendance as well.  After Sunday school we'd end up squeezing into the sanctuary for the regular service. Usually being bumped from our regular pews by the twice-a-year Baptists who, in their infrequent attendance, didn't understand the normal seating arrangement.

That was okay though, because we'd soon be distracted by the fact that every child-sized patent leather purse (mine included) was filled with assortments of contraband sugary treats.

We'd hide the chocolate eggs to the side of our laps that our mothers weren't sitting on and oh so quietly try to unpeel the tin foil wrappers without being disruptive.  Whether or not it's even possible to quietly unpeel foil-wrapped candy is probably a moot point, seeing that the entire congregation smelled like one huge exhale of chocolate breath on that one April Sunday morning of every year.  The jig was probably up years ago, but no one told the kids.

Easter Sunday sermons were always a sweet relief to the horrific account we'd heard about at the prior Good Friday service.

We'd had one full day and two whole nights to shiver in the gruesome memory of what injustice our sweet innocent Jesus endured on account of our own sins. Then Sunday was a breath of fresh air because that's when the victorious coda of His story would be retold.

I'd always anticipate the Doubting Thomas part of the message. I always liked to think that I wouldn't have doubted Christ's resurrection like Thomas did... but I also always thought it would be oh-so-cool to be the one to get to touch our Savior's palms.

I'd say a silent prayer of thanks during the invitational for Jesus's sacrifice. This meant---not only a thankful heart for my salvation---but also that, thanks to His precious gift, we were no longer required to sacrifice pet sheep as a part of our church services as they did in the B.C. days. Phew!

After service, we'd rush across the jelly bean-littered parking lot and into the family van (with Jelly Belly remnants now stuck to our shoes) and hurry off to family dinner to meet up and play with all the cousins.

Dinner was ham.  A considerable amount of rolls would be consumed.  And, then would come the Easter hunt my aunt would annually produce.

She'd fill the empty lot, where our house now sits, with chocolate eggs and bunnies.  The candy was arrayed as if she just threw it about by the handful and then carefully laid a few pieces in the climbing tree and on the fire hydrant... which, I'm pretty sure, is exactlyl what she did.

Every July, my older cousin would always somehow find an errant piece of candy that had been hiding under a bush for the past three months, finally to be found and consumed.

The sugar high would last for weeks and the memories would last for years. 

These days we still get as many siblings, cousins and offspring together as we can.  Though, we all go to different services in the morning, or none at all.

I home-church my brother's kids, in which the annual tradition has been established of me choking and sniffling through the Good Friday message each and every year.  This year I made it through, without a tear!  (I kind of wonder if the kids were disappointed by this.)

Dinner is still ham. Rolls are still consumed by the dozen. And, chocolate candy is still to be found strewn about on the very same lot that is no longer vacant.

The crunchy bunnies are still the best, and God is still very good!

"Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ! In his great mercy he has given us new birth into a living hope through the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead." (1 Peter 1:3)