I am a worrier. I wish I wasn’t. I wish I was carefree and easy going, but the odds have always been against me for that. I come from a long line of worriers, I have Irish blood in me, and I read too many magazines.
Just yesterday, I read the latest update on bedbugs, which apparently can be found in upholstery (think movie theatre seats). I read about new research that warns that letting your dog sleep in your bed can bring on a host of ills from worms to the bubonic plague. And I learned what to do in the event my elevator plunges downward. Although that one didn’t concern me, I stopped riding elevators the day I learned they can plunge downward.
Try as I might to not let my anxieties get the better of me, the fact is, once a tidbit of information enters my brain it is there to stay. Never again will I enjoy a movie without wondering what’s crawling inside the sweater I drape over the seat to protect me from lice. Worries are insidious, they grow like cancer cells, creating havoc in even the most benign events, such as riding an elevator.
So I have to weigh my options…having given up alcohol for the year, I can no longer drown my fears, and I can’t find a bubble to live in, even at Amazon, and they sell everything. I suppose I could banish all forms of media from the house, newspapers, magazines, cable TV, after all, ignorance is bliss, right? But I live in this world, I can’t ignore what happens in it. As much as it pains me to read about crazed gunmen, political upheaval, economic woes, and the latest lettuce recall, I would rather know than not know.
So what’s the answer to managing my anxiety?
Perhaps the answer lies in something greater than myself. Does there come a time when we no longer have a choice but to surrender our lives to the Creator of the Universe, to acknowledge that even though we don’t understand His ways, that He is ultimately in control and we are not?
Is that what it means to have faith?