Kimberly Emerson

I do not want the peace that passeth understanding; I want the understanding that bringeth peace.  – Helen Keller

A couple of years ago, my goddaughter and her family moved into a two-story house.  Renovations on the house expanded the second floor to cover the entire first level.  I think she was ten when this whole process was finished, and she worried that the new part of the second floor was going to fall down. Working in construction, I had just watched a second floor being built.  I said that I could tell her how the second story was put up, if she really wanted to know.  She thought about it for a moment, said, “No, that’s okay,” and walked away.  It is possible, of course, that she thought I would give a long, boring speech.  (It wouldn’t be the first time.)  But I think she decided it was okay that she didn’t know, as long as someone knew.

I love telling people that story. Mostly because it is one of the few times I can remember that someone asked me a question and I actually knew the answer, but also because it demonstrates a level of faith I haven’t reached yet.  I have difficulty trusting.  I want to know.  I’d like to change that about myself, because it makes life harder.  I spend valuable hours of my life wondering about things that don’t make sense.  You know, things like:

– If Japan, the most earthquake-prepared of pretty much any country in the world, is in the throes of a nuclear disaster, why is President Obama saying that America can build nuclear plants safely?  Where are we going to get that expertise, exactly?

– If Speaker Boehner truly believes that we have to make drastic cuts in our budget to cut the deficit, why does he insist on funding the Defense of Marriage Act?  How does preventing a completely victimless crime play a crucial role in our country’s government?

– How could Costco stop carrying Spa Finder massage gift certificates?

– Why were Connie Willis’ last two books so long-winded?  Does her editor hate her?

– Why is one of my friends not returning my call?  There is nothing more fascinating in the world than talking to me, is there?

These are the thoughts that creep into my head when there’s nothing actively going on up in the brain cells.  I’m not losing sleep over any of them, but they bug me even so. If I let them bug me for too long, I feel like I must do something to fix the problems.

In some cases, this is not a bad thing.  It makes me write letters to the president and my Congresswoman and my Senators about supporting renewable, non-destructive forms of energy.  (Seriously, folks.  If we have a big earthquake, we may lose power, but the only way wind turbines will kill you is if you happen to be standing under one of them and it falls over. )  It helps me send off missives to the powers that be explaining that as a tax payer, I’m offended that my money pays for the legal defense of a statute that stops people from designating the most important person in their lives.  (People sleep with whomever they want, regardless of what the law says, so I’m unclear about why gay people must be prevented from having hospital visitation rights.)

In other cases, however, if I’m being honest, these thoughts actually detract from my quality of life.  I get annoyed with Costco, and begin detailing the things I will have to give up if I don’t get that discount somewhere.   I puzzle over why I bothered finishing Connie Willis’ last book, and wonder if someday I will write things that put people to sleep and no one will tell me.  If someone doesn’t return my calls, it’s easy to tell myself that I must have done something wrong, and if I can’t think what, I must not have pondered over the issue sufficiently.  (This after I’ve gone over the incident so many times that my head is pounding and I have the vague idea that it would be an improvement to stab myself in the eye with a letter opener.)

Every once in a while, however – in prayer, while doing yoga, or petting the cat, say – I find a little oasis of calm, there amongst the frantic thoughts that occupy my day.  In those moments, I realize what all those random worries have in common: they all assume that somehow the world revolves around me.  Mr. Obama realizes that I voted for him and that I’m opposed to this policy, but he doesn’t care.  Mr. Boehner chooses most every word he ever utters just to annoy me.  Costco and Connie Willis are in league to ruin my day, and all my friends carry scoreboards around with them to see if I’ve lived up to the SuperFriend designation today.  The truth of the matter is, all these people and institutions do what they do for reasons that are about them, and frequently – one might even say usually – have nothing to do with me.  Actually, looking at it in the extremely harsh light of reason, maybe on some level I know this, and that’s what bothers me most of all.  I am not the center of the universe.

In these times of clarity, I feel God telling me, Be grateful for that.  The center of the universe is a crowded and noisy place.  I’m responsible for enough things in life without having all friends and institutions look to me to be their decision maker.  My brother Peter tells a great story about one of his co-workers.  She had worn herself to a frazzle on a project for their company, and reached a point of decision saturation.  Walking into a restaurant with a couple of friends, she announced to the waiter, “I don’t want to make any decisions tonight.”  He said he understood, and proceeded to bring her what he thought were all the best things the restaurant had to offer, without asking her another thing.  He took care of everything, right from appetizer to dessert.  The bill came to $200.00.  She left him an $80.00 tip.

As a person of faith, it’s part of the package that I don’t need to worry.  All I have to do is try my best, according to Romans 8:28, ” And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him.”  To make my life a better place, I just need to channel my goddaughter’s ten-year-old wisdom: someone knows, so I don’t need to.

So to all of you who are fretters like me, relax: a Higher Power is on the job, taking care of all of us.  And hey – God doesn’t even expect a tip.

Kimberly has been a successful worrier for forty-one years.  She strives to be a complete failure at it someday.

Tags: Barack Obama, Connie Willis, John Boehner, self esteem, spirituality