I’m not a physician, but I’m about as close as you can get. And as a highly trained liberal arts major, I’d like to give you a prescription.
Don’t make me say it twice.
Of course, I shouldn’t suggest such a thing. Trying to quit worrying is like trying to keep a pet squirrel.
I once had a pet squirrel—I’m not making this up—named Hank Williams Aaron. One day, I opened the cage to feed him. All I saw was a brown blur. Hank was halfway to Galveston before I could say his name.
My point: you can’t stop worrying. Because your mind is like a squirrel, the moment you open the door, it goes nuts, so to speak.
I don’t even know what I’m saying here.
The truth is, I was going to write about something else. But today, I saw a young girl crying outside the doctor’s office. It got to me.
She sat on a bench, head hung low. A puddle in her lap. People walked by, uninterested.
An old woman finally stopped and hugged the girl.
They exchanged no words. Only painful smiles.
Look, I know life isn’t fair. In fact it’s downright criminal. Flat tires, red bank accounts, relationship disasters, a bad diagnosis, busted bones. Death. I don’t know what fate dumped in your lap, but I know it stinks.
You have a right to worry, you’re a person. This world kicks you in the teeth, then steals your wallet. What kind of idiot would tell you not to worry?
Yesterday, I pulled out old photos. I thumbed through and saw images of my ancestors. They were poor. I’m talking lucky-to-make-it-past-fort
Then, I found a few pictures of myself, awkward boy that I used to be. Chubby faced, freckled. That kid had a lot to learn—just like his poor ancestors did before him.
And it wasn’t all hopscotch and ping pong, either. You and I have learned the kinds of lessons that left us bleeding on the pavement.
So, even though I don’t know you from Adam’s older sister, I do know a little something about you. The things you’ve endured have made you, you. And you wouldn’t trade them for all the squirrels in Galveston.
I also know that these few paragraphs aren’t going to make a damn bit of difference in your life. But since you’ve read this far, I guess I want to say something.
It doesn’t matter what happens today, how dark the sky, or how bad you think it is.
I love you.
And it’s going to be all right.
Jackie Windsor - November 29, 2016 11:39 am
Your heart for people always shines through your posts. Blessings to you and your family.
Patti Stanley - November 29, 2016 2:06 pm
Love you, too. Just so you know…. I read you every day and sometimes the same writings over and over. Your words make a difference to me.
Kay Keel - November 29, 2016 3:04 pm
Thanks for the beauty of your prose. Sometimes it make me cry and sometimes it make me laugh, but I enjoy every. single. one!
As a side note, I’ve raised several orphaned baby squirrels over the years. The longest for nearly two years. He was injured and it took him a year and half to learn that he could jump. He decided he was grown and ready to leave the nest in early fall of 2013. He still comes to visit on my back deck, although he won’t let me touch him. He still likes avocado.
Reba - November 29, 2016 10:30 pm
Would it hurt to say it out loud more often? I think not.
jane - December 19, 2016 3:56 pm
Worrying? It seems like the unwanted family heirloom that keeps getting passed down in my family. They are mental steamer trunks filled with worry and I inherited it from my mom and filled it up some more and now my son has inherited the dang thing. Your right about telling those of us “not to worry”…cause you love us like I love my son.
Janine - December 24, 2016 1:12 am
It’s a joy to find somonee who can think like that
Christina Simmons - April 4, 2017 8:46 pm