Wednesday, February 18, 2009

Worry

Sometimes it feels like bars of steel
I cannot bend with my hands
Oh - I worry too much
Somebody told me that I worry too much
-Buddy Miller

I remember this song from my father's collection. Funky beat imprinted upon my child's mind. Ohhhh, Ohhhh, somebody told me that I worry too much.

I worry too much. I have been aware of it acutely since my return from India, but I think the pattern started long before then. Aaron comes down with a 103 degree fever. I worry that he might have meningitis. I heard on the news that two soldiers at a nearby base just died of meningitis. Surely it couldn't be. But maybe? Peter dislocates his thumb at a intermural game. I worry that the injury is much worse than I know. Possibly, he will suffer from the pain his whole life. Abby runs around the house. I worry that she might find a whole grape on the floor and choke. Or run into a sharp corner. The economy slides. I don't know anything about the economy, but people say it's bad. People know, right? The older men shake their heads and say, "It's not a good time to be young and startin' out. Too bad." I feel the weight of something I don't understand. Something that hasn't quite trickled down to me yet.

It's not concern. It's worry. Call it like it is.

Sometimes all of this feels like bars of steel. I can't do a single darn thing to bend the circumstances. My desire to be in control reveals volumes about my trust--or lack thereof. Oh friends, I need to believe in my soul, deep down and true, that the very fact it's not in my hands is the good news. Do I believe that His eye is on the sparrow, that His eye is on me, that He is good and His love is eternal?

I ache to say I do.

A little honesty from my weary soul today. I'm worn out from worrying. Trust and faith. May I be a fertile garden for their growth.

2 comments:

  1. Hey Lara Casey. Found your blog via SSaunier and just wanted you to know that I love it, love it, love it. You're great and I appreciate your words, friend.
    -Your favorite Gilly

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  2. Lara, Lara, Lara, I checked again and yes you are my daughter. That being the case, I can't believe you failed to credit the proper songwriter, especially considering he was one of your father's favorites. Although Buddy Miller covered it, the writer and the person who sang it in the soundtrack of your youth was Mark Heard. I hope your Uncle Dave has quit visiting this blog. He would be appalled. For penance, you should encourage everyone who visits this blog to download at least one Mark Heard song off Itunes.

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