Worry

 I am not sure why so many of my analogies come from the fair. Perhaps the whole hanging by a few bolts that may, or may not, have been installed correctly has me praying a little more fervently.

Worry.

I have always been a worrier.

I know in my head it doesn't work this way, but somehow I think that if I worry about it, the situation is going to change. Through turning the situation over and over in my head, I can alter the course of events. Stop the bad from happening.

When I strip it down to the simplest form, it is about control. Or rather, my lack of it. I cannot control this, so I am going to worry about it.

Back to the para-trooper ride.

This year at the fair, as we were going around and around (and around), Kayden kept asking me if I had a tight hold on him. Every time we ascended to the top of the circular ride, I felt his hands gripping my shirt for comfort and protection. It wasn't enough to hold hands, I needed a firm arm around his waist for him to feel safe.

I didn't say this to him, but kept thinking if this thing crashes and burns, me holding on is not going to help you, kid.

Kind of like my worry.

It has been my hallow comfort for years. Something I cling to which offers no real protection from the bad stuff that can and does happen.

This past weekend, we got into a pretty significant car accident. 

It was terrifying.

Shocking.

Painful.

Most of all, unexpected.

I did not worry one minute ahead of time about getting into a car crash.

Luke 12:25   Who of you by worrying can add a single hour to your life?

My mom always tells me-- most of the stuff you worry about never even happens.

I have years and years of bad habits to break, but this is where my heart is right now. Trying hard to break the bondage of worry.

God spared us major injuries Sunday.

I praise HIM for yet again holding our family in His protective grasp.




Oh, and just a side note:

~It is so true what they say about wearing your best undergarments in case you get in a car crash. YIKES. Embarrassing!

~TRUE LOVE is helping your wife with a bed pan. Thanks, love. 

Princess Shelby

When I was 8, my mom and dad vacationed somewhere south (Daytona? Myrtle Beach?). I cannot remember the place, but oh, I remember the little pet I so lovingly picked.

There were a mountain of shells globbed together in the communal aquarium. I chose her strictly for her spunk- she was the only one clinging to the side net.

Princess Shelby of Shelbyville was her name. My pet hermit crab did not do much; mostly folded up in her shell and occasionally on the sponge full of water nestled in her cage.

Four years later, I rolled right into junior high with my tiny pet. I remember bringing her to school, showing off skills and tricks in my science class.

Not that she did much. 

Fellow students peered into her shell and tried prying her out with toothpicks/Q-tips/anything small enough to dig her out of her protective casa.

One day, I returned home from some activity, and Princess Shelby was not in her plastic square box.

My mom told me she had died and she ever so lovingly took care of Princess Shelby's burial.

Fast forward 15 years.

Kayden, Bryce, and I went to Florida with my parents before I got pregnant with Tessa.

Upon browsing the hermit crab cages at the souvenir shop, my mom informed me that she got so sick of Princess Shelby (hermit crabs are only supposed to last around a year), one day she killed her in the garage with a hammer.

Ever since, I have called her the hermit crab murderer.

Well, Jan had the last laugh.

This little beauty, with the original name of "Hermie", came to live with us around Mother's Day.

And Mom is really loving it, because yesterday I went to feed Hermie and he is MIA.

I feel phantom crab legs all day.

Must.find.soon.