She left again last night, heading far into Minneapolis with a group of friends. It was late — on the edge of my wife and me heading to bed. That’s when her teenaged group life begins — later in the evening than earlier. That is also when my worry begins, especially last night when the rain began, announcing the impending arrival of a massive, upper midwest thunder and hail storm.
Again, I worried.
Worry is an interesting word. Old English by origin, it means ‘to strangle’. It is likened to a wolf that has honed in on its prey, attacked and inflicted the final death blow by clasping hard on the victim’s neck and shaking.
Worry is that wolf. For some, it is more relentless and ready than for others. The wolf strangles you with the ‘what if’s’.
“What if something bad happens?” “What if she’s in a car accident?” “What if it doesn’t work out?”
Since worry is an emotion, the only way to handle it is with an onslaught of mental truth and the only truth that I could muster was that of what I knew:
God was bigger than my ability to control her circumstances [tweet that]. My past tells me that worry only steals from my present. Until something happens, (if something happens), it is useless — frivolous, actually — to worry.
I went to bed. She texted. “Decided 2 hang at Perkins. Raining hard. Thot that was a better choice.”
The wolf released my neck.