Beech Tree News Network

I read once, “Worry is like a rocking chair.  It gives you something to do, but it doesn’t get you anywhere.”  l know that, just like I know eating three slices of birthday cake at one sitting will more than likely add a few pounds to my weight, but sometimes, I just can’t help myself.  I’m one of those people who thinks ahead and considers consequences, worry naturally accompanies me.  My husband, Garey, is not a worrier by nature.  It has to be a pretty big event to cause him to lie awake at night.  He believes everything will work itself out.  I believe he just doesn’t see what’s going on around him.  One of the things that has helped me not worry about things I used to worry about is other people’s worry.  I don’t mean “misery loves company.”  I mean, I consider the worries people express to me, and I think, “Now, why are they worried about that?”  It puts my worry into perspective.

                Do you remember the dipper gourd seeds that produced bird house gourds that I wrote about this past fall?  My granddaughter, Sabria, decided we needed to utilize those gourds in a craft project.  After they dried a bit, she selected one gourd to paint as a little girl in a pink unicorn Halloween costume.  I chose to turn my gourd into a hefty farm woman in an apron.

                We set up our gourds and paints on the kitchen table.  Mine quickly became a blonde-haired, blue-eyed woman, wearing a red hat and checkered apron.  Upon finishing the project, I turned the gourd around for Sabria’s careful inspection. 

                “Where are you going to put it?” she asked.

                “On the front porch,” I answered.

                “Well, you had better paint some clothes on her,” Sabria said, “because she is naked under that apron, and I’m worried somebody is going to be embarrassed when they see it.”

                I quickly slathered some light brown paint on the rest of the gourd…didn’t want any naked gourds on my front porch.  It never entered my mind that a naked gourd would worry my granddaughter, but it did.  She was worried about other people’s sensitivities.

                Once, Garey and I stopped by the post office with my daughter, Nikki, and her husband, Thomas.  I assumed we would whip around by the drop box, so Thomas could drop his mail in, but to my surprise, we parked. 

                “There’s a drop box right over there,” I said, thinking he didn’t see it.  It was pick-up time, and a large burly postal worker was retrieving the mail from the box and placing it into his tote.

                “Don’t waste your breath, Mom,” Nikki said.  “Thomas doesn’t trust drop boxes.”

                “Look at that guy!” Thomas said, a bit defensively.  “Would you trust him with your mail?  I’m taking this letter inside, so I can see where they put it.”

                Nikki rolled her eyes and said, “It’s all going to the same place.”

                “No, it’s not,” Thomas said, “Mine’s going inside.”  And with that, he exited the car and marched himself into the post office, where he was greeted by a postal worker whom he could trust.

                I looked over at the guy gathering mail from the drop box.  Yes, he looked like he would be better suited to moving refrigerators for a living, but still there was nothing that seemed untrustworthy about him.  If Thomas had folded to the pressure of our opinions, however, and had dropped off his mail with that guy, he would have lain awake all night worrying if his mail was on its way to the correct destination.  He just didn’t have confidence in that person within that system to take care of something he was entrusting to their care.  Worry seems to be always at odds with trust.