Worries

“Haven’t you learned not to say things like that to her yet?” my mother jested with Brendon after some comment that sent me whirling in worry. It’s what I do. Worry. When I was young I would ask my mom if she worried about me. She told me she didn’t have to because I did the worrying for her.

Then came the day that I became a mother--when my worry grew exponentially. She was a petite thing, 5 pounds, 15 oz and only 18 inches long. But my worry was never unjustified. Even her debut proved that, with the cord wrapped around her neck, her blue skin taking way too long to show it’s pink tinge--proof of welcoming the oxygen.

Then followed the jaundice, the nursing strike, the infected belly button, the constant feedings, and that cough. That cough that didn’t go away, and little did I know it never would. I took her to 6 different pediatricians, and multiple times. I was told it was just a cough and that she would get over it. Doctor after doctor listened to her lungs only to tell me that they were clear (even when she had pneumonia!). I refused to believe it. I failed at trying to convince myself that she was okay, that I was just worrying too much. But I knew, I just knew. A mother’s intuition is indisputably linked to the Spirit.

A mother has the right to worry. Not a right, but the right.

As mothers, we have a stewardship to care for and love our children but it is and always will be overshadowed by an even greater steward. He is ever aware even when we are not, and gratefully, at those times when we feel lost at what to do, He gives those nudges to set us in the right direction. And for me, many times those nudges are my worries. It may not be the most comfortable method, but it works. My worries keep my daughter healthy. My worries keep me on my knees. My worries keep me on the strait and narrow. My worries are my disciplining gift from God.