By G. E. Shuman
It has been my experience, as I have traveled along the fifty four year long road that has been my life so far, that to compare life to a highway is a pretty accurate analogy. It is, because you seem to go along smoothly for a while, sometimes for quite a while, and then there is a bump. The bump may be a small one, and hardly noticeable at all. Or it may be a huge one that rattles you to the core. Then you may have a period of smooth driving again… but, eventually, there is always another bump. There are ups and downs, hills and valleys, curves and decision-demanding intersections. It is true in life, as on the road, that you really never know what’s around the next corner. Sometimes it feels like you have just driven right smack into the middle of a very bumpy road, indeed. I will admit that the past few weeks have felt like that road, for me and for my family.
The good thing about bumpy roads, and bumpy times in our lives, is that once in a while something simply causes us to stop. On the road it may be a bump or pot hole too big to maneuver around. More likely it is a stop sign. In any case, once your car has ceased its attempts at traversing whatever conditions it is encountering, all the shaking and shivering, the rattles and tension just stop. So it is with life. Sometimes, most noticeably at troubled rocky times in life, it is good to simply stop. It is beneficial to cease your attempts at traversing whatever conditions you are encountering, at least for a time. When you do, all the shaking and shivering, the rattles and tension stop. On the road of life, the opportunity to stop is usually not caused by a stop sign. It is more likely caused by the actions of another. In my case, this action was something done by my wonderful grandson, eleven year old Devon.
I stopped, and stopped worrying and shaking and rattling one day last week, after receiving a note from my daughter Cathy, Devon’s mom. The note was just a comment or two from Cathy, telling how proud she was of Devon because of something he had done at school. It seems that a boy in Devon’s class was experiencing some problem with the school lunch lady, or the hot lunch program, or some other adult-invented school rule which punished (as usual) not the adults who were responsible, but the child who was affected. In any case, for whatever reason, the school would not give the child his hot lunches. The result; the boy had nothing to eat for lunch. The part of the story that made me stop in my tracks and think about what was really important was this. Without ever telling his mom or dad, my grandson made a decision which showed more maturity than what was being shown by the adults running his school. Devon simply began sharing his bagged lunch with the other boy, every day.
Now, you may think this is a small thing. I do not. You see, Devon’s acts were those of kindness, not of selfishness. They were acts of simple charity, not of greed. And they were not done for praise or thanks. Devon told no one, not even his parents, about what he was doing. My grandson simply wanted to help another, and took action to do so. To me, this is a very big thing indeed.
We live in a time not only of most children acting like children, living self centered lives, never being satisfied with what they have. Our time is one in which adults are doing the same. We spend, and charge, and fill up storage sheds with our toys, because we are never satisfied with what we have. We mortgage houses, cars, boats and cycles in efforts to find happiness. And those efforts are failing, miserably. At the time of this writing, our government is spending over seven hundred billion of our children and grandchildren’s dollars, to literally bail out our economic ship before it sinks. All because of over borrowing, and greedy banking practices that made such over borrowing possible.
To further mix my metaphors, and botch my analogies, there does seem to be a light at the end of the tunnel, a bit of smooth sailing ahead, and hope along the highway. You see, there are children like my grandson Devon, who are in the process of growing up, right now. They are people who selflessly share what they have, who think of others first, and more than just think… do what they need to do, without being asked. These are the people who will someday do more than bail our country out because of its past, collective, selfish sins. You know, our politicians all seem to talk of ’change’, right up until they day they are elected. But people like Devon are the ones who will actually change our world for the better. Maybe, one shared lunch at a time. I’m very proud of you Devon.
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Sunday, September 28, 2008
Okay, Now I’m Mad!
By G. E. Shuman
I consider myself to be a fairly tolerant person. I live in a country where everyone is free to express his or her opinion, no matter how different that opinion is from someone else’s, and this is a good thing. I love the freedoms our country affords. But… and this is a big BUT! One news article I happened to notice today has, in my opinion, just gone too far. (I intended to write this week about something wonderful one of my grandchildren did. Check the paper two weeks from now for that.) Right now, I’m just too mad.
The article I read today told of something that I consider to be the ultimate insult to American women, and to humanity as a whole. It seems that P.E.T.A., the organization of People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals, has seriously suggested, in writing, that Ben and Jerry’s Ice Cream begin making their products using human milk instead of cows’ milk. Huh? Yup, you heard it right. The idea is that this would alleviate the suffering of the cows, (Can’t you see the suffering in their big brown eyes?) even though cows line up at the barn each night to have their ‘suffering’ relieved, by the very process of being milked. I guess any possible suffering of women in such a situation would be okay with P.E.T.A. It is my opinion that P.E.T.A. did target the Vermont company most likely to swallow such an idea, but I’m not sure even good ol’ Ben and Jerry themselves would swallow that ice cream. Would you? Seriously? I would not.
To the members of P.E.T.A., let me pose a few questions. First of all, in all of your rantings about how poorly the animals have it, have you ever seriously considered the idea of the ethical treatment of people? If not, that might be a worthy project, sometime after you finish protecting the feelings of birds, fish and cows. Also, I wonder if you have really thought your breast-creamy proposition through. Do you actually expect women to get themselves pregnant in order to start a milk business? (You do understand that a mammal must produce an offspring to begin producing milk. Right?) And, if this proposition were to be implemented, what would happen to Vermont dairy farms, and those very cows you long to protect from the pain of being milked?
I can see it now; Ben and Jerry’s can build a big milking parlor, but not like the ones on our farms. In theirs, modern multitasking women sit and get their hair done, while being pumped, and watching Jeopardy, right after taking the baby they produced, in order to produce the milk, to daycare. Next, how about going a step further into cruncher-dom and barter for the milk? “Yes ladies, deposit just one quart in the bottle, and take home a whole pint of Momma Moo’s Chunky Monkey! Yum!
Husbands, do you really think it is ethical or proper, and I am being serious here, to, literally, milk your wives for money? I, for one, think it is not. If you disagree, and think this is okay, at least consider the fact that, regardless of what P.E.T.A. thinks of Vermont women, most of them probably cannot produce as much milk as a cow. Is that a fair assumption? If so, do you know what this would do to the price of ice cream? And, what’s next? How long will it be before Cabot Creamery and others are encouraged to do the same to produce their products? I can see the ads now: “Vermont cheddar. Just like Mother used to make!”
To me, this whole idea is just one more step in the ultra-leftist efforts of the P.E.T.A. folks to put humanity on the same level as the animals. In fact, this particular disgraceful notion puts the rights of women, including your wife, mine, and our daughters, squarely behind those of dairy cows. Not a pretty place to stand, I can imagine.
To the members of P.E.T.A., who, collectively, would seem to want to see our women in line at the milking stalls, let me relate a few more thoughts about your brilliant human ice cream idea. Firstly, my wife is not a cow. She is a beautiful human being with the God given rights to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Rights that I don’t think the average dairy cow would quite understand. Secondly, do you know that AIDS is spread through human breast milk? (That ice cream had better be good, to take a chance like that.) Now, P.E.T.A. people, stretch your brains and tell me what else we use cows for. That’s right; we make things like steaks and cheeseburgers out of them. How long will it be before people begin suggesting that we raise humans for meat? Do you think this idea is far-fetched? I did too, until I read an article seriously promoting the mass production of breast milk ice cream.
You people at P.E.T.A. need to wake up, smell the coffee, and apologize to every woman in America. See, I told you I was mad.
I consider myself to be a fairly tolerant person. I live in a country where everyone is free to express his or her opinion, no matter how different that opinion is from someone else’s, and this is a good thing. I love the freedoms our country affords. But… and this is a big BUT! One news article I happened to notice today has, in my opinion, just gone too far. (I intended to write this week about something wonderful one of my grandchildren did. Check the paper two weeks from now for that.) Right now, I’m just too mad.
The article I read today told of something that I consider to be the ultimate insult to American women, and to humanity as a whole. It seems that P.E.T.A., the organization of People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals, has seriously suggested, in writing, that Ben and Jerry’s Ice Cream begin making their products using human milk instead of cows’ milk. Huh? Yup, you heard it right. The idea is that this would alleviate the suffering of the cows, (Can’t you see the suffering in their big brown eyes?) even though cows line up at the barn each night to have their ‘suffering’ relieved, by the very process of being milked. I guess any possible suffering of women in such a situation would be okay with P.E.T.A. It is my opinion that P.E.T.A. did target the Vermont company most likely to swallow such an idea, but I’m not sure even good ol’ Ben and Jerry themselves would swallow that ice cream. Would you? Seriously? I would not.
To the members of P.E.T.A., let me pose a few questions. First of all, in all of your rantings about how poorly the animals have it, have you ever seriously considered the idea of the ethical treatment of people? If not, that might be a worthy project, sometime after you finish protecting the feelings of birds, fish and cows. Also, I wonder if you have really thought your breast-creamy proposition through. Do you actually expect women to get themselves pregnant in order to start a milk business? (You do understand that a mammal must produce an offspring to begin producing milk. Right?) And, if this proposition were to be implemented, what would happen to Vermont dairy farms, and those very cows you long to protect from the pain of being milked?
I can see it now; Ben and Jerry’s can build a big milking parlor, but not like the ones on our farms. In theirs, modern multitasking women sit and get their hair done, while being pumped, and watching Jeopardy, right after taking the baby they produced, in order to produce the milk, to daycare. Next, how about going a step further into cruncher-dom and barter for the milk? “Yes ladies, deposit just one quart in the bottle, and take home a whole pint of Momma Moo’s Chunky Monkey! Yum!
Husbands, do you really think it is ethical or proper, and I am being serious here, to, literally, milk your wives for money? I, for one, think it is not. If you disagree, and think this is okay, at least consider the fact that, regardless of what P.E.T.A. thinks of Vermont women, most of them probably cannot produce as much milk as a cow. Is that a fair assumption? If so, do you know what this would do to the price of ice cream? And, what’s next? How long will it be before Cabot Creamery and others are encouraged to do the same to produce their products? I can see the ads now: “Vermont cheddar. Just like Mother used to make!”
To me, this whole idea is just one more step in the ultra-leftist efforts of the P.E.T.A. folks to put humanity on the same level as the animals. In fact, this particular disgraceful notion puts the rights of women, including your wife, mine, and our daughters, squarely behind those of dairy cows. Not a pretty place to stand, I can imagine.
To the members of P.E.T.A., who, collectively, would seem to want to see our women in line at the milking stalls, let me relate a few more thoughts about your brilliant human ice cream idea. Firstly, my wife is not a cow. She is a beautiful human being with the God given rights to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Rights that I don’t think the average dairy cow would quite understand. Secondly, do you know that AIDS is spread through human breast milk? (That ice cream had better be good, to take a chance like that.) Now, P.E.T.A. people, stretch your brains and tell me what else we use cows for. That’s right; we make things like steaks and cheeseburgers out of them. How long will it be before people begin suggesting that we raise humans for meat? Do you think this idea is far-fetched? I did too, until I read an article seriously promoting the mass production of breast milk ice cream.
You people at P.E.T.A. need to wake up, smell the coffee, and apologize to every woman in America. See, I told you I was mad.
Saturday, September 13, 2008
For Sale or Rent: One Slightly Used Business Manager With Writing Experience
By G. E. Shuman
For reasons known, or at least understood only by God and my former employer, I have very recently joined the ranks of the unemployed. This is a less than desirable position for me, having been ‘on the job’, or at least on some job, every week since before I was eighteen. I have found that having time off is one thing, and wonderful. Having forced time off through the elimination of a position is another thing, and not so wonderful. This new situation is one I fully intend to remedy as soon as possible, before the money runs out, and before I drive my wife crazy here at home.
My weekday, for the past week, (As if you can hardly wait to hear this,) has gone something like this: Get up at six, as usual, then shower, dress and begin searching the online job markets, coffee mug at my side, pen in my mouth. After several hours of this I might break for a bit of important work, like watering the plants, or putting a load of clothes in the washer. Or it might be for REALLY important work, like refilling that coffee mug. If need be, as an expert at multi-tasking, (Something all online job descriptions require,) I actually possess the ability to do all three of those tasks, practically at the same time. I can fill the watering can while sugaring my coffee, and carry the can in one hand while picking up a basket of dirty clothes. I need to add that stuff to my resume.
Then it’s back to the computer desk, for a stint at emailing cover letters, with that (virus-free) resume and references carefully attached. In no time at all it’s time for ‘Lunch with Lorna,’ (Doesn’t that sound like the name of a cooking show?) and perhaps a walk, and a chance to let out the dog. You’ve got it, more multi-tasking. Not to mention the many short prayers along the way. One day last week Lorna and I even went on a leisurely grocery shopping trip together. That was enjoyable. It gave me the chance to practice shuffling along behind Lorna and her grocery cart, as most of the other husbands I saw were doing. My afternoon is just chock-full of exciting follow ups, and calls to contacts and business friends, asking them to wrack their brains with ideas to save me from any more of this. By now you’re probably hoping someone will save YOU from any more of this. It’s easy for you. You just have to turn the page. I have to turn a big corner. That was a pretty contorted metaphor, but it’s my column.
We have all heard sayings like “Every cloud has a silver lining.” and “If life hands you lemons, make lemonade.” In this situation, as in most other challenges of my life, my silver lining, or linings, are my dear and patient wife, my loving family and concerned friends. All of these people are very likely sick of me by now. And it’s only been one week. My wife, especially, with her hugs and encouraging words, would probably love to have me out of her hair, and into my car heading off to work. And who could blame her? The lemons, in the other saying, are my sour feelings toward people I worked hard for. They are my unshared, repeated inner thoughts that people likely cannot recognize integrity in someone else, unless they possess some of it themselves. Whoops, I guess they’re not unshared thoughts now. Forget I wrote that. Okay? I know that making lemonade of those lemons requires my forgiving them for this thing that they did, so that I can successfully move on. I have decided to make that lemonade, as difficult as it is to make, right now.
For those of you with me in my unemployment ship: “Take heart, me maties!” (There go those pirate movies again.) I have found that finding a job is a full time job, but it is much easier when done with lemonade. For those of you others who may be looking for help, I know of a slightly used business manager with writing experience, for sale or rent. Please come and get him. My wife will love you forever. (vtpenner@verizon.net)
Eliminate Debt and worry with the Rapid Debt Reducer debt software
For reasons known, or at least understood only by God and my former employer, I have very recently joined the ranks of the unemployed. This is a less than desirable position for me, having been ‘on the job’, or at least on some job, every week since before I was eighteen. I have found that having time off is one thing, and wonderful. Having forced time off through the elimination of a position is another thing, and not so wonderful. This new situation is one I fully intend to remedy as soon as possible, before the money runs out, and before I drive my wife crazy here at home.
My weekday, for the past week, (As if you can hardly wait to hear this,) has gone something like this: Get up at six, as usual, then shower, dress and begin searching the online job markets, coffee mug at my side, pen in my mouth. After several hours of this I might break for a bit of important work, like watering the plants, or putting a load of clothes in the washer. Or it might be for REALLY important work, like refilling that coffee mug. If need be, as an expert at multi-tasking, (Something all online job descriptions require,) I actually possess the ability to do all three of those tasks, practically at the same time. I can fill the watering can while sugaring my coffee, and carry the can in one hand while picking up a basket of dirty clothes. I need to add that stuff to my resume.
Then it’s back to the computer desk, for a stint at emailing cover letters, with that (virus-free) resume and references carefully attached. In no time at all it’s time for ‘Lunch with Lorna,’ (Doesn’t that sound like the name of a cooking show?) and perhaps a walk, and a chance to let out the dog. You’ve got it, more multi-tasking. Not to mention the many short prayers along the way. One day last week Lorna and I even went on a leisurely grocery shopping trip together. That was enjoyable. It gave me the chance to practice shuffling along behind Lorna and her grocery cart, as most of the other husbands I saw were doing. My afternoon is just chock-full of exciting follow ups, and calls to contacts and business friends, asking them to wrack their brains with ideas to save me from any more of this. By now you’re probably hoping someone will save YOU from any more of this. It’s easy for you. You just have to turn the page. I have to turn a big corner. That was a pretty contorted metaphor, but it’s my column.
We have all heard sayings like “Every cloud has a silver lining.” and “If life hands you lemons, make lemonade.” In this situation, as in most other challenges of my life, my silver lining, or linings, are my dear and patient wife, my loving family and concerned friends. All of these people are very likely sick of me by now. And it’s only been one week. My wife, especially, with her hugs and encouraging words, would probably love to have me out of her hair, and into my car heading off to work. And who could blame her? The lemons, in the other saying, are my sour feelings toward people I worked hard for. They are my unshared, repeated inner thoughts that people likely cannot recognize integrity in someone else, unless they possess some of it themselves. Whoops, I guess they’re not unshared thoughts now. Forget I wrote that. Okay? I know that making lemonade of those lemons requires my forgiving them for this thing that they did, so that I can successfully move on. I have decided to make that lemonade, as difficult as it is to make, right now.
For those of you with me in my unemployment ship: “Take heart, me maties!” (There go those pirate movies again.) I have found that finding a job is a full time job, but it is much easier when done with lemonade. For those of you others who may be looking for help, I know of a slightly used business manager with writing experience, for sale or rent. Please come and get him. My wife will love you forever. (vtpenner@verizon.net)
Eliminate Debt and worry with the Rapid Debt Reducer debt software
Refuse The ‘What Ifs’
By G. E. Shuman
This is a column about worry, or more precisely, about worrying. Right up front, before anything else, let me say that I am not at all the right person to be giving advice on, or even writing a column about that particular subject. There is just no one else here at my keyboard at the moment to do it. So, I will try.
The truth is, I tend to be a worrier, and not a very organized one, or even one with a great sense of correct priorities as far as what, if anything, should be worried about. For me, worry is not so much some sense of impending doom centered around huge things like war, disease, death or other seemingly distant issues. Oh, no. I fret about ‘important’ things, ‘clear’ things, like fixing the car, or the plumbing, or finding time to paint the front porch. You know, things that are closer to home. I think the reason for this might be that those things are at least slightly within my ability and responsibility to control. We all love to be in control. Don’t we?
My guilty admission here is that I am almost always conscious of, and occasionally plagued by the ’what ifs’. So, ‘what if’ there is something REALLY wrong with the car? What if I can’t figure out why the washing machine won’t drain? What if the weather doesn’t dry out long enough for me to paint that front porch before winter? Worrying about such things sometimes seems to consume me, at least a little, and certainly consumes my time. (I told you I wasn’t the right person to give advice about worry.) Here’s an example of what I mean.
Last week my family and I were on vacation. I know, I wrote weeks ago about my summer vacation. That was a different one. (When you take time off to go hunting in the fall, I’ll be at the office. Okay?) The point is, last Thursday afternoon we headed home from a nice hotel somewhere in Massachusetts, and I noticed, or was reminded that something was vaguely wrong with the car. I knew it was the tires. Yes, the tires. I hate it when it’s the tires. Don’t you? The car shook slightly at high speeds, and unless it was my imagination, the tires were making more noise than they used to. In fact, they seemed to be making more noise than they had a week ago. My wife and I spoke briefly about this as we rode, and then she read and rested. (As the husband, it’s solely my job to worry about the tires, I guess.) My daughter had already been lulled to sleep in the back seat by her Ipod, (and likely by the noise of those tires,) and my son simply gazed out the side window, as usual. I sat, and drove, and worried. What if we’re ruining these new tires on this trip? After all, they’re only six months old. What if they were balanced wrong in the first place, causing them to shake and wear, and the garage won’t accept the responsibility? What if they are under inflated, like Mr. Obama warned us about? What if they are over inflated, like Mr. Obama didn’t warn us about? What if, what if, what if? For nearly the entire four hour trip home I rehearsed in my mind the conversation I would have with my mechanic the next day. I had to be firm with him and make him admit that my (presumably) ruined tires were his fault. I had to explain what they were doing, and tell him my diagnosis in a way which made me sound like there was some chance I knew what I was talking about. And I listened to the tires some more, and I rehearsed some more, and I felt the steering wheel vibrate some more, and I rehearsed some more. All the way home, across three states, I wasted time I could never get back. It was time I could have spent enjoying the scenery and chatting with my son, wasted because of something as trivial as tires. How smart is that? Early the next morning I drove straight to the garage, to find that my four hour rehearsed speech for the mechanic took about one minute to deliver, and didn’t get even close to the reaction I thought it would. He was very nice, and didn’t act as if he had spent any time at all the day before worrying about my tires. I had spent those four hours of my vacation on them, (a whole hour per tire) not to mention several more sleepless hours during the night. It turned out that my tires were not ruined, and the service work took about one fourth the time I had wasted, worrying about it all.
I told you all of that because, regardless what some of my family members think, there is nothing particularly odd about me. That means you might think exactly as I do, and may be occasionally plagued by your own ‘what ifs’. You know, what if Russia won’t actually leave Georgia? What if you don’t get that promotion? What if your girlfriend is starting to remind you of your sister? What if your wife is starting to remind you of her mother? What if you lose your job? What if gas prices go back up? What if it rains? What if it doesn’t rain? What if Obama wins? What if McCain wins?
I’ve heard that some people actually think the ‘what ifs’ are positive things. They assert that they are the result some instinctual ancient need for us to be caregiver, provider and protector, and that the ‘what ifs’ actually help us to survive. I disagree. You see, my point of view here is one of a person who has been a Christian for many years. As such, I long ago stopped believing I was the true, ultimate provider for my family. God may let me help, but He certainly doesn’t need my help to do it. Being bothered, and sometimes nearly consumed by the ‘what ifs’ shows, at least in my case, nothing but a lack of faith in The One who has promised to supply all of my needs. I’ve been thinking and praying a lot about that, especially since my recent, petty struggle with those tires. My goal, and my prayer, is to stop wasting precious time, by learning to refuse the ‘what ifs’. How about you?
This is a column about worry, or more precisely, about worrying. Right up front, before anything else, let me say that I am not at all the right person to be giving advice on, or even writing a column about that particular subject. There is just no one else here at my keyboard at the moment to do it. So, I will try.
The truth is, I tend to be a worrier, and not a very organized one, or even one with a great sense of correct priorities as far as what, if anything, should be worried about. For me, worry is not so much some sense of impending doom centered around huge things like war, disease, death or other seemingly distant issues. Oh, no. I fret about ‘important’ things, ‘clear’ things, like fixing the car, or the plumbing, or finding time to paint the front porch. You know, things that are closer to home. I think the reason for this might be that those things are at least slightly within my ability and responsibility to control. We all love to be in control. Don’t we?
My guilty admission here is that I am almost always conscious of, and occasionally plagued by the ’what ifs’. So, ‘what if’ there is something REALLY wrong with the car? What if I can’t figure out why the washing machine won’t drain? What if the weather doesn’t dry out long enough for me to paint that front porch before winter? Worrying about such things sometimes seems to consume me, at least a little, and certainly consumes my time. (I told you I wasn’t the right person to give advice about worry.) Here’s an example of what I mean.
Last week my family and I were on vacation. I know, I wrote weeks ago about my summer vacation. That was a different one. (When you take time off to go hunting in the fall, I’ll be at the office. Okay?) The point is, last Thursday afternoon we headed home from a nice hotel somewhere in Massachusetts, and I noticed, or was reminded that something was vaguely wrong with the car. I knew it was the tires. Yes, the tires. I hate it when it’s the tires. Don’t you? The car shook slightly at high speeds, and unless it was my imagination, the tires were making more noise than they used to. In fact, they seemed to be making more noise than they had a week ago. My wife and I spoke briefly about this as we rode, and then she read and rested. (As the husband, it’s solely my job to worry about the tires, I guess.) My daughter had already been lulled to sleep in the back seat by her Ipod, (and likely by the noise of those tires,) and my son simply gazed out the side window, as usual. I sat, and drove, and worried. What if we’re ruining these new tires on this trip? After all, they’re only six months old. What if they were balanced wrong in the first place, causing them to shake and wear, and the garage won’t accept the responsibility? What if they are under inflated, like Mr. Obama warned us about? What if they are over inflated, like Mr. Obama didn’t warn us about? What if, what if, what if? For nearly the entire four hour trip home I rehearsed in my mind the conversation I would have with my mechanic the next day. I had to be firm with him and make him admit that my (presumably) ruined tires were his fault. I had to explain what they were doing, and tell him my diagnosis in a way which made me sound like there was some chance I knew what I was talking about. And I listened to the tires some more, and I rehearsed some more, and I felt the steering wheel vibrate some more, and I rehearsed some more. All the way home, across three states, I wasted time I could never get back. It was time I could have spent enjoying the scenery and chatting with my son, wasted because of something as trivial as tires. How smart is that? Early the next morning I drove straight to the garage, to find that my four hour rehearsed speech for the mechanic took about one minute to deliver, and didn’t get even close to the reaction I thought it would. He was very nice, and didn’t act as if he had spent any time at all the day before worrying about my tires. I had spent those four hours of my vacation on them, (a whole hour per tire) not to mention several more sleepless hours during the night. It turned out that my tires were not ruined, and the service work took about one fourth the time I had wasted, worrying about it all.
I told you all of that because, regardless what some of my family members think, there is nothing particularly odd about me. That means you might think exactly as I do, and may be occasionally plagued by your own ‘what ifs’. You know, what if Russia won’t actually leave Georgia? What if you don’t get that promotion? What if your girlfriend is starting to remind you of your sister? What if your wife is starting to remind you of her mother? What if you lose your job? What if gas prices go back up? What if it rains? What if it doesn’t rain? What if Obama wins? What if McCain wins?
I’ve heard that some people actually think the ‘what ifs’ are positive things. They assert that they are the result some instinctual ancient need for us to be caregiver, provider and protector, and that the ‘what ifs’ actually help us to survive. I disagree. You see, my point of view here is one of a person who has been a Christian for many years. As such, I long ago stopped believing I was the true, ultimate provider for my family. God may let me help, but He certainly doesn’t need my help to do it. Being bothered, and sometimes nearly consumed by the ‘what ifs’ shows, at least in my case, nothing but a lack of faith in The One who has promised to supply all of my needs. I’ve been thinking and praying a lot about that, especially since my recent, petty struggle with those tires. My goal, and my prayer, is to stop wasting precious time, by learning to refuse the ‘what ifs’. How about you?
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