What's the Worst Thing That Could Happen?

I have been blogging less over the last week because of some minor ailments. My hip has been hurting when I sit too much, a little ----rhea, a plugged ear—nothing to write home about. But, of course, I called my mom anyway and enumerated all the things that were slowing me down. No one in my immediate family really had the patience to listen to me complain, so I had to dial Grannabelle.

But my mom loves to discuss infirmity. She has told me (about seven times) that her parents took her to a lot of funerals as a child. She tells me this in a casual and authoritative voice, as if her parents loaded her into the car each week and dropped by a couple of wakes just to expose her to a little death. She follows this funeral parade revelation with the suggestion that these little death tours may explain her fascination with sickness and death. Could be.

Once, when she was driving me to the airport for a return trip to college she suddenly turned to me. With urgency she stated, "I have been wanting to tell you something. Eat lots of fruits and vegetables. They prevent cancer." She had not just read a double-blind study in the AMA about a link to cancer and one of the four food groups. She had "seen something somewhere". This kind of urgent advice, which often has undertones of warning, comes frequently. Ramona got a mosquito bit? Is it West Nile? You are feeling tired? Mono? Chronic Fatigue Syndrome? My mom, like most, has a tendency to care, thus, she worries.

My mom also believes that if you are sick, you should go to the doctor. They are the experts. This is generally good advice. She taught me to listen to my body and take care of it. (I still push it too hard sometimes) I am thankful to have this legacy, but I could do without the worry. I do accept worry as a fact of life.

My kids spend more time than me being examined in doctors' offices and I sit and wait and talk to doctors. Obviously, I have the easy job between the three of us. Sometimes I find myself worrying. When I worry, I pray. I pray for health and healing. I pray for peace. I pray for the ability to take care of my family in the best possible way.

In the waiting rooms and examining rooms of our lives, I am confident and trusting. I believe the doctors will do their best and it will make my children's lives healthier. Yet, when I get home, late at night, when I need a snack and to be in bed an hour ago, I start to let the worry creep in. I pray some more, but sometimes my will to worry is greater than my will to accept God's peace. My mind wonders. I start to forget to trust God.

Here's where confession comes in and I tie everything back to my mom: I have learned, just in the last year, that confession sets me free. I confess all of my worries late at night when I lay on my pillow, but I am not asleep. I name the absolute WORST THING THAT COULD HAPPEN and how it is owning me. I ask God to take it from me. Then I pray for all the stuff I prayed for two paragraphs ago. It usually works. Peace comes. When it doesn't work, it means there is more worry in me that I can't name yet.

My mom articulated this process to me when I was griping about my back. She wanted to check with me and make sure that none of my doctors was missing ovarian cancer, because she heard or read somewhere that ovarian cancer has very few symptoms and one of them can be lower back pain. "Come on, Mom, I don't have cancer," I whined. She interrupted herself to say, "I know. I know. It just helps me to get this information out there. I need to articulate it so that I can get over it."

This is the What's-the-Worst-Thing-That-Could-Happen? Principle or confession. If my mom and I just admit to each other (or, even better, God) our worst case worries, they lessen or even evaporate.