Worry ties you down

Nancy Moser

Yup.

But I am an independent woman! I can install a light fixture without shocking myself; I can mow the lawn with only one five-minute nap behind the azalea bush; and I can whip up homemade treats for Girl Scouts with 10 minutes' notice (take the Chips Ahoy cookies out of the package and place them in a Tupperware container). Surely God likes independent people?

Nope.

I discovered this truth when the ravioli boiled over.

It was the same day that the cat piddled in the philodendron. We were out of milk, bread and eggs, forcing us to eat Doritos and orange juice for breakfast. Somehow, the kids managed to find a matching pair of shoes--and most of their homework. One off to school. Two. Three.

I had just scooped up the kitty with the intention of having a serious discussion about the differences between potting soil and kitty litter when Laurel called from school. She had forgotten a library book that was already two days overdue. She could not check out Little House on the Prairie until she returned Little House in the Woods, and her book report was due in two days. Grabbing the book and my car keys, I wondered if any 20th-century family was as organized as Pa and Ma Ingalls.

After returning the book, I stopped at the school door. The sky had turned fom blue to blanched--and from it flowed a torrent of wet stuff. My umbrella was in the car. I made a run for it, stifling the urge to rotate slowly in the rain, saving my clothes a trip through the washer later on.

While I was in a library sort of mood, I headed for the main branch. I needed to research the effects of oleander for the mystery I was writing. As the rain worsened, the windshield wipers deviated from their normal 4/4 rhythm, tried a quick waltz and gave up.

Brake lights! Whew, a near miss. I collected my scattered wits and pulled into a gas station to replace the wiper blades. Unfortunately, they cost more than the 70 cents I dug out of the glove ompartment. My chequebook was at home. Charge it.

The library, groceries, lunch, laundry, writing.

Finally, a hot bath. I was just sinking into the steaming water when the phone rang. It was a neighbour near my son's school. Carson had fallen off his bike. His arm was broken.

I wrung out my hair, pulled on some clothes and raced out the door. I found Carson sitting on the curb, his right arm held gently with his left hand. A few brave tears escaped--his and mine. Then it was off to the hospital, where he got x-rayed, delayed and okayed, and became the proud owner of a fluorescent green cast.

I zoomed home, planted Carson on the couch armed with the remote control. I considered making him chicken soup. I wondered how he would do homework with his right hand encased in its glow-in-the-dark prison.

I headed for the kitchen to start dinner, tossed a rock of frozen hamburger into the microwave and punched enough buttons to launch the space shuttle. Nothing happened.

"No! You can't do this to me!" I yelled, punching the sequence again in case I wasn't speaking coherent micro-ese during my first attempt. Nothing.

Oldest daughter Emily bopped through the kitchen on her way to work at the local ice cream store. "See ya at eight," she said.

"Don't you want some dinner?"

"I'll eat something at work." Chalk up one serving from the dairy, fat and sugar food groups.

The clock said Mark would be home in 15 minutes. I hoped he wouldn't mind ravioli with meat sauce a la iceberg. I leaned against the counter and closed my eyes.

Whatcha doing, Mom?" asked Laurel.

"I am trying to remember how I cooked hamburger before the invention of the microwave."

"How about the stove?" she suggested.

Cocky kid.

I pulled myself out of my trance and followed her suggestion, browning the frozen hamburger in one pan while water boiled for the ravioli in another.

The doorbell rang. Another lawn service wanted to take care of us. Was that a hint?

That's when it happened. The ravioli boiled over. And that's when I reaIized this particular independent woman couldn't do it alone. I removed the pan from the burner and shut off every appliance in the kitchen. I escaped to the bathroom, and locked myself in.

"Mom?" said Laurel, tapping on the door. "Are you all right?"

I took a deep breath and held back a primal scream. "I will be," I said.

She left me alone. But I was not alone.

It was not a noble position, sitting on the toilet seat next to a sink that needed scrubbing, a mirror that needed shining and a used Kleenex next to but not in the wastebasket. But God did not mind since He finally had me where He wanted me--ready to listen.

"God, it's too much!"

I did not hear a celestial voice echoing from the faucet. I did not experience a flash of light as God granted me His revelation. God's voice came from within and was as comforting as a hug. "It's about time you came to Me," He said.

That is when I gave my worries to God. I relinquished the pesky cat and the freshly fertilized philodendron. I gave Him Laurel's forgetfulness, Carson's arm and Emily's junk food dinner. I asked Him to take care of the weedy lawn and the pasta-encrusted stove. And I asked if He had any good ideas for dinner--now late and getting later.

He answered--not with words but with feelings. Serenity. Peace. Everything would be all right.

I transferred the Kleenex from the floor to the wastebasket, re-entered the world and pulled out a phone book. I ordered pizza--with extra cheese. God approves of pepperoni.

God's way is so simple. Maybe that is why this independent woman did not see it sooner. Worry ties you down. Prayer sets you free.

Nancy Moser is a freelance writer from Overland Park, Kan. This article is reprinted, with permission, from the November, 1995 issue of the standard, and is also included in her second book, Save Me. I Fell in the Car Pool (Servant).

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