It has been my experience that letting God have what is His to carry is easier said than done. It is as if I believe massaging and manipulating the stress that plagues me is a noble calling, a duty I must fulfill in order to be diligent. Last night I lay awake in my Rochester, Minnesota hotel room tossing and turning, and I don’t just mean on the bed. I tossed and turned four, before-bedtime, phone calls over and over as if I were flipping coins to make a decision. I also tossed between giving my burdens to Father and then turning them back into my mind. I’m not sure if I ultimately won or just wore out! All I know is the clock was reading single digits the last time I looked.
If I truly believe God will take care of me, why do I insist on worrying? Worry assumes God can’t—or won’t—take care of me, and that is simply not true!
The stout, gray Moccasin served a valuable purpose. I forgot about it after several minutes, but I continued to consider the nature of worry.
When it comes down to it, I must decide if I am going to let God carry His responsibilities or if I am going to carry them for Him and be guilty of worry. Now that I think about it, my worry last night in bed felt a great deal like a cold, gray reptile running its body over mine.