Do Not Worry

A few weeks ago, I put out a mixture of grass seed and straw and fertilizer, primarily along the strip of my property that borders the alleyway.  That particular strip had been just dirt, stones and a few weeds and so the garbagemen saw no problem with driving their truck over it each week, slowly eroding my already tiny lot.  So, most of the grass seed went there, and it is, somewhat shockingly, thriving considering how little it has to work with.

But I also scattered some seed and straw over a bare patch in the front yard.  Most of the yard is spotty, but this bare patch was quite large, so I thought, let’s give it a go and see what happens.

The good news is the grass that has grown there is lush and beautiful, the type of grass you want to run your fingers through, the type of grass you used to play in when you were a kid, the type of grass that made you unafraid to roll down the hill in it.  This new grass is so new and so amazing looking that the other day when I mowed it for the first time and left wheel marks, I went out right after and fluffed up the grass that had been squashed.  I am babying that baby grass.  I don’t water it with a hose; I use a watering can.  I am gentle.

The bad news about that new grass is that it makes the rest of the yard look horrible in comparison.

The rest of the yard is filled with what I call “spite” grass, that’s grass that grows out of spite and meanness.  It’s moody teenager grass.  It doesn’t want to share space with the rocks and scabby dirt.    It has always been jealous of the greener grass on the other side of the fence.  It is definitely jealous of the new plush patch of grass that has sprung up in the middle of it—the grass that I water and protect with straw and speak kind words of encouragement to.  The spite grass doesn’t want to be in my yard at all, but since it has no choice, it might as well grow—a little.

If you stand in my yard and listen, that’s not the wind you hear, it’s all that spite grass sighing bitterly over its life.

Every day, it seems that God gives me something to do outside in the yard.  It’s a challenge to find something for me to do that won’t leave me bedridden in pain.  But God gives me little things.  Water the grass.  One watering can a day.  Fill it only half full.  Spread it out evenly over the seedlings. 

Tomorrow my task will be to blow the shells, the ghosts of their former selves, that the cicadas have left behind on the back patio.  I wish I could complain about the cicadas—I don’t mind them but my physical therapist is getting married next week and has an outdoor wedding she is terrified will be overcome by cicadas. 

I want to share with her verses from today’s reading in Luke 12:22-24 where Jesus says, “Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat, or about your body, what you will wear. For life is more than food, and the body more than clothing. Consider the ravens: they neither sow nor reap, they have neither storehouse nor barn, and yet God feeds them. Of how much more value are you than the birds!”

I want to tell her not to worry about the cicadas.  God takes care of the birds and, in least in my neighborhood, that means about 10,000 birds have descended upon us to eat the cicadas.  Don’t worry about the cicadas.  Worry about the birds and nasty things they let drop from the sky.

I’m guessing she would find that neither comforting nor amusing, and it’s best not to upset the woman who’s sticking needles in your back.

What I have always found interesting about these verses from Luke is that we, as human beings, are clearly wired to worry because nothing has changed in two thousand years. 

No matter how the day goes, at some point during the day we will find ourselves ruminating on something.  We will find something to puzzle on, something to chew on, worry about, get our stomachs all fluttery.  We will dig canyons of worry-lines across our foreheads.  And honestly, the biggest problem I have is that I worry about everything, equally. 

I have no ability to discern what is important in life—we are told by society that everything is important—everything is breaking news even though it happened yesterday and no one died and everyone is fine. 

I read a meme once that said, “I wish someone would explain to my body that the fight or flight response is only for life-or-death situations.”

And here is Jesus in Luke, speaking to us directly from across the millennia, saying, “Don’t worry about life, what you eat or what you wear—God’s got it.”

And then God will point me to the hedge clippers and say, “That honeysuckle needs to be cut back.”

And I’ll sigh—trying not to sound bitter like that scraggly spite grass out front—but I’ll sigh because I will cut that honeysuckle back like a foot and that will be all I can manage and tomorrow it will have seemingly grown back a foot and then some and now its tendrils are curling around the vinyl siding on the house. 

But when I finish with the honeysuckle, God will say, “How do you feel?  Still worried?”

And I’ll have to think about it.  “Give me a minute,” I’ll say, “I’m sure I can think of something.”

And God will point out back to the weed-like tree that’s three feet tall, and he’ll say, “That died over the winter.”

I will sigh again because I had noticed that it looked dead-ish—it certainly hadn’t sprung to life like the honeysuckle that was now crashing over it like a wave.

God will again point to the dead weed.  “You can probably just break it off.  You won’t even need that saw you bought on Amazon and haven’t used.”

I think this is why we are told to pray without ceasing because God knows if we’re in constant conversation with Him, we won’t have time to worry.  God knows when we are in constant conversation with Him, our faith is enriched.  We are like that new patch of grass in my front yard.  We thrive when we are shown attention and love.  We improve mentally, physically and spiritually.  The more time we spend with God, the more our own spirit grows, the more our souls settle, curling up to God as if we were a child, His child, and He was about to read us the most perfect, breathtaking and wonderful story.

It's our story, He’s reading to us by the way.

In the meantime, I take care of the tiny bit of earth that God has seen fit to name me caretaker of, that means the new grass, but also the weeds and the rocks and, yes, the spite grass.  They need love too.

We all do.

Amen.