Even The Birds Of The Air

I worry. This practice of worry travels along with me like an old school friend, chatting it up every so often, reminding me that I am still a worrier. Will the grandkids be safe in school? How many more people can move to Portland in one decade? What about gun control, please, please let's get this one right.

Look at the birds. They don't plant or harvest or store food in barns, for your heavenly Father feeds them.

 And aren't you far more valuable to Him than they are? Can all your worries add a single moment to your life?

 There is much to be afraid of lately, the anxious thoughts and what-if's swirl in the mind like an upside down snow globe. One missing the beautiful scene inside. The unthinkable becomes reality and you want it to change and your knees get bruised from the kneeling and can you really hear our cries?

And then He gets creative, sending you cryptic love letters, like a husband who buys extra bird food just in time for a February snow storm. A dream that sticks to your skin for days, you can't wash it off no matter how hard you scrub, leaving a lingering scent of hope. And like an unsolved jigsaw puzzle, the kind that cause tiny beads of sweat to pool at the brows, He gets kind of loud like and slips the remaining tiny puzzle pieces into position. I bet He is grinning.

 I hear your voice now, in the dream, in my Bible, those red letter words dancing a graceful waltz, those precious birds all stuffed and well fed. I hear your soft and gentle voice stilling those piercing worry thoughts, your wild and crazy heart beat thrumming against the cares of the world. I hear your voice now, gentling the tilting world with your radical, relentless grace.

Be still. I've got this.
~God~

And you start all over again