Little Worries

Often, the little worries surprise us the most, arriving like special operation forces, attacking us in the middle of the night.

None of them by themselves pose an ominous threat. It’s not like the Huns are pounding on the city gate, threatening to destroy civilization as we know it. But one by one, they mount their attack, lining up to destroy an otherwise restful sleep. During the day, we ignore them, but in the middle of the night, they demand our attention.

I mistakenly submitted the wrong book for one of my theology classes. The identification of the classes was similar, with only one number differentiating them. Mine wasn’t a monumental mistake; the class doesn’t begin for weeks, so it should be an easy correction. 

But that’s not what my army of worries told me at 3 a.m. “What if students have already ordered the books online, only to find them unnecessary for the class?” the little army’s captain whispered. “And what about the other class that will need the book? They won’t know they need to purchase it. Won’t you have to rearrange the syllabus?”

Books, like everything else, have become more expensive. And so, my anxiety army expanded its assault to encompass potential complaints.  “What about the dozens of emails you will receive from  students wanting to know why you required them to buy an expensive book that wasn’t germane to the syllabus?”

That word “expensive” led to financial questions. “By the way,” the voice queried, “are you sure you have enough in your retirement account? What if you end up destitute? How will you seek employment when you’re 85? Will you be healthy enough to work? 

The mention of health empowered the “anxiety army” all the more. “Haven’t you read how important sleep is to your health? Of course, you have. So what are you doing at 3 a.m. trying to sleep? Lack of sleep is harmful to your health.” 

No one in the history of the world has gotten back to sleep when worried about getting back to sleep, especially when fearful that a lack of sleep may keep them from ever seeing the sun rise again. 

For the record, studies show that approximately 85% of the things we worry about never happen. But, of course, statistics don’t diminish our worry. We worry that our worry is in that 15%. We’re like the person who quipped: “When I don’t have anything to worry about, I begin to worry about that.”

So, what to do?

Anxiety can stimulate creativity. If it’s a matter we can do something about, do that. I’ve gotten up in the wee hours to work on a project or write out possible solutions to a problem that bothered me. It’s easier to rest once we’ve addressed the elephant in our mind. There is satisfaction in knowing we’ve done something about the potential problem.

But we are helpless in resolving many things, like the weather or the economy. 

And there are issues we can’t rectify. What happened yesterday happened. We can’t go back.

I am learning that much of the problem with worry is pride. Most of us, including me, must be intentional about giving up control, admitting that God is God and we aren’t. We are lousy substitutes for God’s role in this universe. If something is beyond our control (hint: most worries fall into this category), we must humbly let them go. 

And trust God.

Do what you can and leave it in God’s hands. Paul the Apostle reminded the church in Philippi of that truth: “Be anxious for nothing, but in everything by prayer and supplication, with thanksgiving, let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus” (Philippians 4:6-7).

The world’s greatest administrative assistant, Sherry Bowen, at Campbellsville University’s School of Theology, notified me the morning after the anxiety army had bullied me. No problem, she told me. She had already taken care of the textbook issue. It was as simple as that.

One more lesson on the threat of little worries. 

And I’m still learning.