It’s challenging, this writing a column thing. Every week, I score through the world’s most ineffective search engine, aka my brain, to make sure I haven’t written the same thing before, used an identical title, or referenced the same movie quotes. See, I started this column over 6 years ago on a 2010 Dell that crashed 4 years later. I moved to a well-loved Mac my husband procured from a gentleman who resells the contents of foreclosed storage units. That one gave me 2 amazing years. Next, I volleyed onto my iPad/wireless keyboard setup. That one proved to be more than my feeble, cloudless brain could comprehend. Now, I sit before you on a new MacBook Air with only a wonk-wonk-wooooonk level M1 thingamabobber. I don’t know what that means, but it was affordable, and the letters appear on the screen when the pads of my fingers touch the keys. What more can you ask for? Yet, all this “error message/did it send or not send/what do you mean the file is corrupt/ populates in weird characters instead of letters” life had one profound effect on me. It filled me with worry. And, like the song Simon & Garfunkel never recorded, Hello Worry My Old Friend is the background score of the film of my life.
My maternal grandfather, William Davis (W.D. if you were there on government business or Dub if you were friends), was an expert, gold-medalist worrier. That man could pace a country mile on a stormy night. Shoulders sloped, fingers rhythmically rubbing against his thumb, and with lips moving in concert to words only his head could hear, he would slowly walk from the twin sized bed in his bedroom in a straight line through the kitchen and into the parlor room my grandmother had turned into her personal bedroom over the years. They said they slept separately because he snored, he’d always worked nights, or that he was just too cantankerous to share a room with anyone. The definitive answer varied by the day. Anyway, he would pace like that, the ash from a handrolled cigarette occasionally falling onto the linoleum kitchen floor despite his wife’s frustration, until the morn, until the storm had passed, or until the situation in question had reached a conclusion. In the sport of worry, there was no one better.
Just like a biblical lineage, Dub begat Marsha, a world class worrier after his own heart. My mother could worry better than an overwatered plant can attract gnats. Why, she would worry about the night air and my health, her own finances and yours, too, the health of all humanity, our vegetable consumption – or lack thereof, the weather, car maintenance, and what she was cooking for the next 365 days. And that was only 15 minutes of her days’ worth of worrying. While this predestination toward fretting used to aggravate me deeply, I must say, good job, momma. I don’t know how you did it. At some point in the last few years, I grabbed that worry baton from my mother’s hand and took off. If, just like anything else in life, quality worrying takes practice, I may be on a path to make my ancestors very proud. I am a Michelin star worrier.
My worry gene was activated in the 80s.
Social media sites tell us that kids today are under tremendous anxiety, but I say phooey. Kids today never watched The Day After for extra science credit. We were convinced that we would perish in a nuclear event before the end of 1989. Then came the worrying of motherhood. Then came the worrying of diving back into the workplace. Then came divorce. Every crisis has honed and polished my worry gene until it shines like a flawless diamond in the center of my soul. I’ve often wondered if there isn’t some way I can morph this skillset into a career. Can I make the move from personal worry into corporate worry? Is that like a soap opera star trying to land a movie role? Perhaps I can move from retail worry into a bulk option and try my hand at wholesale worrying. Consignment worry, maybe that’s the ticket! Seems like something you’re good at must have a leverage point.
I know what you’re thinking. You’re peering at me over your glasses, tsk tsking me under your breath. You’re saying, “Doesn’t she know that worry and faith can’t exist together?” But listen. I am a faithful person. I have seen a lot of stuff in my day, but I’m still out here with a smile on my face and more joy in my heart than I deserve. That’s faith, right? Still, I understand. Matthew says we shouldn’t be anxious. Proverbs says we can’t lean on what we understand. Peter says just give it to God. So, what’s a gal with a worry-induced RBF to do? I say a reframing is in order. What if we call it something else? Why not love?
There’s a classic Texas storm rolling in today. The watches have begun. The warnings are sure to follow. I have a consignment art project I accepted on a lark today. The deadline is tremendously close. My diverticulitis is itching for a flare-up. My dog has an ear infection. My granddaughter is struggling in math. What if it’s all love? What if I do a little pacing, do a little journaling, and do a little praying – all in the name of love. Worried hearts care big. Truly, I tell you, I don’t think God minds. He told us the greatest of these is love, after all.
- Log in or Subscribe to post comments.