This is a sunset-out-the-front-window picture, for a contemplative, introspective post.
We're supposed to confess our faults to one another, right? Is the Internet an appropriate venue for confessing faults? I'm going to answer myself and say, no - not all of them. However I think I can confess to two of mine: worry and sadness.
The Bible is packed with "fear not," isn't it? The text also contains lots of counsel to rejoice, and be of good cheer. Still, I spend a lot of time vexed, and sick at the stomach, and unable to breathe, and sometimes the conflicts all around just bog me down with sorrow.
The funny thing, the gift from God, and the thing that dispels this anxiety and props me up when I'm disconsolate, is the way my family treats these situations.
Over a decade together, the Spouse honed his technique. Early in our marriage, he made me repeat, "No matter how hard I try, I just can't worry about it." That was a bomb. Didn't work.
Plan B: After listening to me fret, he would say, "That doesn't bother me." This was his version of a Jedi mind trick. He thought the mere suggestion that he wasn't worried would magically lift my anxiety - in the same manner a person might levitate their body above a murky swamp (in a galaxy far, far away) simply by calling upon a metaphysical force. I retorted by pointing out to him, in detail, the philosophical error behind the entire Star Wars series. Oddly, this did make me feel better...
Finally, sometime during this last year, he employed the best strategy so far. It's simple, yet totally effective. In fact, it amuses me so much that I forget what was bothering me in the first place. Here's how it goes: I explain to him what's bugging me and why I'm all in knots over it. He replies, calmly, "It's very normal for you to worry about something like that."
I think he should get the Nobel Prize.
Sometimes, frustration (or progesterone?) overwhelms me or a sad thought just gets too sad, and I run off to the bedroom for a good cry. There's no place to cry like in bed, under the covers, fully clothed, and there's no human better at comforting me than my oldest son. My youngest gives me a wide berth during those times, but my seven-year-old cannot stay away.
One time - May 4, '07 - it's in my journal - I had been reading James 5:11 and the words just hit me like a train, so that I ran into my room to bawl. In a few minutes, R appeared at my bedside, grabbed my hands, and asked if I was hungry. "Can I get you a banana or something?" he said.
Later in the year on a baffling, perplexing day, I fled to my room again for another big weep. Dutifully, R followed me, grabbed my Bible off the bedside table, stabbed his finger onto a page and started reading aloud: "They shall fall by the edge of the sword, and shall be carried away captive...um, uh." So, I started laughing and blowing my nose.
He should get a prize, too.
2 comments:
Oh Kelly, I love it : ) The sunset is beautiful. And BOY do I understand crying right now : ) R will make a wonderful friend and a wonderful husband someday! There is nothing like the comfort from your child. Caroline traces tears with her fingers and then tries to kiss them away. I bet a banana would have stopped the tears--and his verse was just perfect! Thanks for sharing. Oh yes, good job to Karl for trying new methods as he grew as your husband instead of just sticking with the first one that wasn't working!
Haha! I think we all can relate to this "supposed" fault, some of us have it more than others in the first place, but in my experience it is greatly intensified with motherhood. I loved hearing all the approaches around their to fixing said weeping situations, that's awesome. :-)
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