All My Cares

This post feels as if it requires a preface. This is not a cry for help or attention. If you know me you know that I have a strong distaste for drama. If you usually like my writing, this may not be your cup of tea.

… cast all your anxiety on Him, because He cares for you. - 1 Peter 5:7

When I think back, I’ve always had a tendency towards it. I vividly recall the feeling of bewildered surprise mingled with mild confusion when my 4th grade teacher told me not to be a “worry wart.” Ten year old me didn’t even know what one was.

I’ve had a nasty, subconscious, and recalcitrant habit of scratching at imperfections on my skin for as long as I can remember.

But I get stuff done. Lots of stuff. I am efficient. I stay busy. Most of the time I run like a well oiled machine. Bosses love it. My furniture and floors sparkle with it. Books are devoured by it.

As are my dearest people. My family. Sometimes my friends. Definitely myself. And my relationship with a gracious Father in heaven who called me by name, knowing my past, present, and future faults.

On the surface everything is fine, but like a volcano, lava may not be far below the surface. While I have not sought a diagnosis, if there is such a thing as “high-functioning anxiety” - that would be me. Half the time I couldn’t even tell you what I am anxious about. But I sure can’t relax until it has been laid to rest.

There is a reason my favorite verses deal with worry. My left arm is covered with part of them:

“Look to the birds of the air …

Your heavenly Father feeds them …

Do not worry about tomorrow.”

Paraphrased portion of Matthew 6:25 - 27

Based on illustrations by J.R.R. Tolkein

Why on earth am I bringing this up? I’ve recently rediscovered my love of writing poetry. During my arduous adolescent years, I actually exclusively wrote poetry (unless you count notes to pass to my friends). Praying my anxious thoughts and feelings to God sometimes helps, but often I am unable to settle my fluttering mind enough to put together a sentence. Perhaps the physicality of writing them to Him instead (in all their angst) makes the difference. Maybe I share something with David - if you take a stroll through the Psalms some of his are quite dark - (“valley of the shadow of death” anyone?).

Photo by Stormseeker on Unsplash

I've shared this with a few people close to us; it seems many women feel this way. Eaten up and unsettled yet keeping life running smoothly. It is on account of others like me that I’m thinking I will share some of my poetry. Not as a cry for help or to be dramatic. I’ve always been a tech-girl, not an actress.

Maybe it will bring someone else comfort. Maybe it will help another find my Parakletos … my Advocate, my Helper. Because when I remember to silence the noise (or at least block it out) and look to Jesus, peace for my frantic soul is never far away.