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?