A black bear ran through our yard the other day. I only know this because my dad, already half-out of the driveway on his way to church, ran up and banged on our front door to let me know. He said that it had run through our front yard on three legs. Great. An injured bear is the most dangerous kind.
You have to understand that I’ve grown up with the comforting knowledge that bears don’t live in my area. It’s never been something to worry about during hiking or when I’m letting my dog out. But now, it’s just kind of there, looming in the back of my mind when I’m walking my pup around the yard. She sniffs through the brush as serenely as a terrier can, while I’m on high alert like a deer. A squirrel snaps a stick from the woods and I jolt. I feel eyes watching me, and I’m constantly trying to remember what to do if a bear shows up in your yard (and how can you save your dog in the process?).
I worry for my safety. I worry for my dog’s safety. I worry for my siblings’ and parents’ safety. I worry because I am unsure about this particular situation. I don’t think I would quite know what to do.
Let’s talk about worries.
*
When I was small, my parents had a kids’ fire safety video that talked about playing with lighters and demonstrated “Stop, Drop, and Roll,” and it was playing all the time at our house. I learned how to recognize a firefighter through the haze of a house fire so I wouldn’t be afraid of him or her.
But this video had a side effect that I didn’t expect—it instilled in me a childhood phobia of fire.
We have a bunch of home videos of me staring with wide-fearful eyes at cakes covered with birthday candles, whining, “Daddy, I don’t like this!” if someone didn’t blow them out quick enough. I would toss and turn fitfully on Thursday nights, when my mom would light a candle in the kitchen during a bible study. I had nightmares about our little house burning down, lit by a forgotten candle or a dried-out Christmas tree. I worried about everything my parents had worked so hard to build and design and provide being thrown into a sifter and running through the cracks, disintegrating into charred wood and powdered ash.
I love fire now; it dances and scrambles with great joy and dazzles my eyes. But I think, to some extent, I still worry about that—that everything I and my family have worked for will amount to nothing.
*
I stumble into my living room, my heart a clenched fist. It’s strange that, when I feel anxious, my chest tightens and my stomach trembles; you’d think it would be the other way around. It’s a dichotomy I don’t welcome. I’ve been looking for a job, and my inadequacy has hit me all in a tidal wave. My resume needs to be updated, I need to write at least fifteen cover letters, I need to find a job. Ah, the joys of post-grad life. I can feel my task list watching me.
Desperation is not one of the emotions I thought I would feel right after graduating college.
My grandfather is running his hands over skeletons of cabinets he’s building for us. He’s the self-proclaimed Carpenter’s Kid, a gesture both to his father and his Father. He is always dispensing wisdom and licorice.
I grab a handful of almonds to sate my blood sugar levels, which always seem to correlate to my stress levels. “I’ve decided that I don’t like job searching,” I announce to my grandfather. “It’s so stressful, and there’s so much to do, and I don’t know how to do it. I know I’ll be fine, but—I don’t know. I feel so anxious.”
Without looking up, he says, “So you don’t believe Jesus then.” It’s not a question.
It’s the most on-brand thing my grandfather could say, but it still takes me by surprise. I pause mid-almond and mutter, “What?” lamely.
This time he looks at me, pushes his glasses further onto his nose. His eyes are sparkling. “So you don’t believe Jesus then?”
“Yeeeeeees? No?” I’m not sure how to answer that.
He jabs the air right at me and smiles reassuringly. “John 14!”
He starts reciting the passage from memory, pausing so I can taste the sweetness of Scripture on my tongue. This is a ritual we have practiced since I was a child, a kind of call-and-response. It was how he taught all of his grandchildren the 23rd Psalm.
“Do not—”
“Let your hearts be troubled.”
“Trust in God—”
“Trust also in me.”
“My Father’s house—”
“Has many rooms.”
“And I go—”
“To prepare a place for you.”
“And if that were not so—”
“I would have told you.”
He spreads his hands wide, hands that have seen more paint stains and splinters and have kneaded more loaves of bread and tied more shoelaces than I could count. “You see? Jesus knows exactly what he’s got for you. And he’ll lead you to it. Eeehhhh, don’t worry!”
Peace doesn’t quite settle over me yet, but my grandfather’s words give me enough strength to keep myself from sliding down deeper into my worries. I don’t feel the fear-etching gazes of all of the “maybes” and “what ifs”. I know that the work of finding a job will be hard and stressful, but suddenly I’m not floundering alone in it anymore. I’m no longer isolated by my own worry.
The worries are still there. But the words of Jesus strip these worries of their power.
I’m going to be okay. And so are you.