Worry, Rain, and Wet Blankets

Last week, at dinner, our seven year-old son asked "Mom, are snails oviparous or viviparous?" I said, "Henry, are you making those words up?" He said, "No...Really, I'm not!" We quick grabbed the iPad and "googled" the words (after Henry told us how to spell them). Seven, and he's already way smarter than anyone else in our house...And ever since Lucy (8 y/o) discovered how to use a hot glue gun, nothing is safe from "crafting." Her creativity is a little intimidating. We worry about things like standardized testing with her - because she doesn't do anything in a standard way. We worry about social skills with Henry. We worry about how we use language around them, because we so much want to model good grammar and good content and thoughtfulness and kindness and respect and listening. We worry about preparing them for the "real" world and still grounding them in hope and joy and peace and laughter and fun. We worry about what to say about "mean" people without making them afraid. We worry about bullies and guns and violence. We worry about how to keep from punching those people who tells us that we need to "toughen them up!" We worry about whether or not we are worrying about the "important" things.
Also last week, I had the opportunity to spend a couple hours with a mother who just, days earlier, held her son in her arms while he died from a gun shot. A nightmare I have and worry about.
I also spent time with a woman who has pretty "aggressive" Parkinson's disease, and none of her family wants to do anything to help her out...And I worry about her.
I also spent time trying to learn more about what is going on in our state legislature and how our elected officials can claim to be standing up for the issues of their faith, while making the choices they are that affect the least, the lost, and the last. And I worried that I don't know enough about it, or do enough to change it, or model for my kids what it looks like to "strive for justice and peace in all the earth" (the most important baptismal promise my husband and I swore to do.). I worry about explaining hypocrisy to my kids.
I worry about the woman who came into my office so desperate for help and then took advantage of me (I don't worry about her taking advantage of me, but I worry about what in her life makes/made her do what she did...and how I can help her find the "image of God-ness" that is created into her)...Same worry I have about the person who threw a hunk of concrete through my car window Saturday night.
I worry that I am choosing to put my time and energy in the wrong place...that I am not doing nearly as good a job at balancing my family and my work, as I like to think.
I worry that I take my husband for granted.
I worry about how I am going to juggle getting my car fixed, making my family a priority, and meeting my obligations to work. I worry about how to satisfy everyone.
I worry that my head will explode!
And then, on Sunday night, after a too-long day and a too-long week, I find myself siting in the drizzling rain on a damp quilt, on the lawn of Symphony Park. Even though we had talked all week about doing it, even though he went and "claimed our spot" earlier in the afternoon, I tried hard to talk my husband out of doing this. In fact, on the way back into town from Hickory (I went there Sunday afternoon), we were talking on the phone and I said, "I just don't think it's a good idea tonight. I'm exhausted. I just don't want to do it. It's too wet. Mom and Dad just got here. They've been driving all day...They're just going to go to be polite. It doesn't even start until 8:00, the kids will be too tired. We can do it next week." I went on and on and on and on.
It was only because I was in a weakened state (thanks be to God) that I finally just gave up and said, "fine." And, at 7:30 Sunday evening I called my husband on the cell phone and said (incredibly caustically), "Okay, we've all piled into Mom and Dad's car...where are you?" I looked up and he was waving us down in the parking lot, standing in a parking place as close to the place he had prepared as possible. I was still scowling at him, insisting that we'd never be able to see anything because everybody still had their umbrellas up and that it was going to rain and I can't believe you didn't even BRING an umbrella and our quilt is wet. And I looked down and there was wine and cheese and salami and fruit and bread. And all of the umbrellas went down and the rain stopped and we sat on our quilt, prepared plates for my parents, then for the kids, then for ourselves, and the symphony started playing. And we all exhaled. And after a time, I looked back at my parents who were sitting on camp chairs just behind us, holding hands. It is one of the most familiar scenes to me. I caught dad's eye. He had tears in his eyes as he said, "You are doing good."

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