I stumble into worry the way an alcoholic stumbles into a bar after a long day spent trying to keep it all together.
"I'm just here for a few minutes," I stammer ... but before I know it I've spent the entire night drinking cocktails of what ifs and mights and maybes. I leave drunk on fear, and I wallow in the certainty of death ... before waking up in the morning and realizing I've done it all over again: I've died more times than I've lived this week, and yet I'm still breathing.
It's a waste. A waste of time, a waste of breath, a waste of energy.
And is that how I want to summarize my life?
Wasted, drunk on fear. Wallowed in and swallowed by worry.
There is a beckoning of Grace nodded in my direction each morning as I walk in the shame of another binge, a gift from Heaven waiting to be received.
And I? I eye it wearily and mistake the offerings of grace for that of disappointment and anger, wonder if I'm still so drunk that I can't even determine between the two.
When will I live like I am living instead of like I am already half-way dead?
You asked who of us by worrying could add a single second to our lives. I realize the simplicity of this truth. And I also realize something more that was written in between the lines.
Who of us by worrying could erase seconds of our lives
moments that could be spent smelling the sweetness of a preschooler's hair
or the warmth of the sun shining boldly through the cold of March winds
the embrace of strong arms around my waist
and the faint smell of winter melting into spring just outside my window.
If worrying empties today of its strength
then I want to empty my heart of worry.
I want to fast from fears, forget even taking one sip of the drink that pulls me under.
I won't swallow it any longer
because I won't allow it to swallow me whole.
In the watering holes of my mind
I empty my bottles of fear
and I drink of the grace
You've poured for me instead.