This is in the Bible: “Do not fret. It only leads to evil.”
It’s not fair, really. People who fret are trying to prevent evil. They are being conscientious. Yet they are chronically misunderstood.
Take me, for example. You’d think that after over 100 flights with kids, someone would notice all the mission-critical tasks I perform. Shushing. Quadruple-checking departure times. Taking up more than our fair share of the overhead compartment weight limit. Producing entertainment out of thin air. Distributing pretzels. Fanning airsick kids with in-flight magazines. Finding lost Lego pieces. More shushing.
Repeatedly praying the pilot is sober.
My family rarely expresses their appreciation for these services. But I suppose that’s motherhood—notoriously under-appreciated. The cooking, the cleaning, the listening . . . especially on airplanes, when one strange sound could mean an imminent nose dive into the Atlantic.
Every once in a while it would be nice if, for example, my husband would say, “Dear, I just wanted to tell you that I notice the death grip you have on the arm rests. Thank you for your tireless watch-care over our family.” Instead, he usually says something helpful, like, “Did you know there’s never been a successful water landing in the ocean?”
In those moments, I’d like to call God up and say, “Are you sure you didn’t mean, ‘Do not joke around, it only leads to evil?’”
I know you’re probably thinking I sound imbalanced. So let me reassure you: I am very aware that flying isn’t the only thing I should worry about.
Did you know, for instance, that rabies can be dormant for a whole year? And that one of the first symptoms can be itchiness? If I don’t interrogate my son every time he scratches his left elbow, who will?
I once wrote an article about how Feeling Awkward™ is the job description of a missionary. But sometimes I’ve lived like my job description is to feel anxious.
I know, I know. Whenever Jesus and I hang out, He’s like, “Do not worry about tomorrow. Tomorrow will worry about itself.” And I’m like, “No problem, Jesus. I’m totally not doing that. I’m worrying about today, and next Tuesday, and three years from now, but tomorrow is absolutely off limits.”
And then Jesus is like, “I think we need to talk again.”
Two and a half years ago, I was at the peak of my “planning” prowess. I was spinning all the plates and getting my ducks in a row (ducks are surprisingly difficult to keep in order, particularly when you are already spinning plates).
And then I got actually sick. Like, worse than elbow itchiness.
Like, lie down on the floor in the middle of the night crying out in pain sick. Waking up your husband to pray for you sick. Remembering that your grandma died young of colon cancer sick. And no matter how many funny Dave Barry articles you read, it’s hard to laugh away the paranoia that comes from not knowing why you’re in pain all the time.
It was a journey. And the journey began, as so many do, on an airplane.
I was tasked with visiting a single female worker in a creative access location. We bought tickets. I packed my minimalist backpack, making sure to include my Airplane Preparedness Kit: warm socks for potential polar temperatures, wet wipes for potential pathogens on the arm rests, and headphones, so I could drown out the sound of my heart palpitations with Scripture songs.
It took several flights to get to The Location. My last flight was with a small national airline a friend of mine likes to call, “Maybe Airways.”
Anyway, there I was, boarding my plane, looking about 19 with my li’l backpack, even though I’d just turned 39. I walked to my seat, as one does, only to discover there was a guy lying across my seat with an IV going into his arm.
I looked at the stewardess, who was slamming shut various overhead compartments.
“Um?” I said.
“Sit down, we need to take off!”
“But my seat . . .” She waved her manicured hand around dismissively. “Just sit anywhere.” A burly guy whose broad shoulders needed their own seats motioned for me to sit by him.
So I did.
Then I put my elbows on my lap to try not to get into his personal space or let him into my personal space, while simultaneously avoiding making eye contact. Then I put in my headphones to begin my Flight Preparedness Ritual.
The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want . . . there is plenty of air in here . . . breathe, breathe . . .
He-makes-me-lie-down-in-green-pastures-He-restores-my-soul . . . I’m sure the pilots are not even a little bit inebriated, breathe . . .
It was a special time with me and God. A thing we do together relatively frequently. To my surprise, though, God actually interjected a comment into this little one-way conversation.
“The man next to you is safe.” I heard it in my heart, not my ears, but it was a very clear message.
“That’s nice, God. Though what I’d really like to hear is that the pilot is safe.”
Two more times the Lord said to me, “The man next to you is safe.” I accepted this. Relaxed a bit. I was just beginning to enjoy my soothing music when God spoke again.
“Wouldn’t you like to get rid of that anxiety?”
“Not to be disrespectful, Lord, but I’ve prayed about this a gazillion times already. You and I have been doing this anxiety thing for years, and I don’t let it slow me down anymore. I do it scared, etc. I’ve accepted my thorn in the flesh.”
“But wouldn’t you like Me to heal you?”
“Of course, God. But Your grace is sufficient, Your power is made perfect in weakness, etc.”
“But Perfect Love casts out fear.”
“Touché.”
“Is it possible that you think your worry is somehow keeping this plane in the air?” I froze. I looked up at the plastic ceiling. Suddenly, Jesus’ words came like a hurricane into my mind: “Who of you by worrying can add an hour to his life?”
It seemed absurd. My worrying had nothing to do with whether this airplane stayed up or fell down. That had to do with a bunch of physics diagrams I didn’t understand. My fear was just making the ride unpleasant. So why was I holding onto it?
“God, I’d give You my worry, but I’ve already tried so many times. Besides, I don’t know how.”
“You don’t have to know how. You just have to know Me.”
“Okay, then. You can have my fear of flying.” I literally opened my hands toward the ceiling, hoping the burly Arab guy wouldn’t notice. And after fifteen years of enduring flight-related anxiety, I suddenly felt relaxed. Peace actually flooded my soul, just like the cliché says it does.
“Wow, Lord! You’ve truly delivered me from all my fears! How can I ever thank You?”
“Share Jesus with that man.”
The first words that came to my mind at that moment were “bait and switch.” I did, however, share Jesus with the big burly Arab man, and I went on to encourage my friend in her service. But it was while visiting her that I first took special notice of the discomfort in my abdomen.
Over the next several months, as I endured pain and underwent testing, I felt Jesus draw near. We faced the truth together: God is God and I am not. He is infinite, all-powerful, and all-loving. I am finite, mortal, and have just two hands and twenty-four hours a day with which to hold things. I have plans, but He has The Plan.
God doesn’t have to rest, but I do. I am unable to carry this world and its cares. I need to trade my self-made burden for the one Jesus designed for me to carry. I can easily take on too much, but He will never give me too much.
In the end, the enemy of medical normalcy in my life, was . . . cue the drumroll . . . gluten.
I’d always been the kind of person to say, “I’ll eat whatever,” when invited over. Now I am the kind of person who asks, “Is this popsicle gluten-free?” The doc says I’ll have to avoid it for the rest of my life, which is sad because I really liked bread. But I’ve been mostly pain-free for two years now, so it’s worth the sacrifice.
Here’s what I’ve learned: planning for the future, risk analysis, even feeling afraid are not wrong. But our bodies and minds can overreact to those things, just like they can to pollen, or pet cats, or pizza crust.
While there may not be a cure that will let me eat whatever I want, there is a way forward for me in freedom from anxiety. I know that because I’ve been on many flights since the day I agreed to let God handle my fear of flying. And, to His honor and glory, I am still free and at peace.
Worry sometimes shows up in other places, of course. Thankfully, I know exactly what to do when it does.
“Jesus? I think we need to talk again.”
