The Disciples Still Worried, and So Do I

Sarah Torbeck ponders the question: God loves us, so why do we worry about things we can’t control? 

You know that opening scene in The Sound of Music, where Maria is standing in a green, Alpine meadow, and begins singing “The hills are alive with the sound of music"? Then the camera zooms out—revealing a sweeping panoramic view of lush, seasonal beauty. Remember her wildly expansive attitude of joy and thanksgiving?   

Yeah, well, that’s not how I feel … at all.   

The uncertain winter has given way to a blustery, unforgiving April that buffets and penetrates more than my thick coat, and blue jeans. I feel buffeted all the way into my wool ski socks, which I hardly ever wear, since I don’t ski, nor do I ever plan to learn. I’m sorry to admit that this recalcitrant spring has done nothing but remind me to put on an extra layer of thermal underwear.   

Yet despite this almost conspiratorial effort to delay spring … spring has arrived. The blossoms of my pear trees have burst forth with blooms. The puffy, white blossoms blend quite nicely with the ice that has fallen all around them. The daffodils, yellow, and verdant stand tall, and defiant, as if to say, “Is that all you’ve got?”  

I peered over the fence this evening, and saw a white-tailed deer, nibbling on the tiny pink buds of a sugar maple. At least the doe can appreciate the fruits of early spring, I thought to myself.  But I am not so forgiving. I am still trying to understand this annual struggle: the struggle of northeastern winds advancing and yielding—almost begrudgingly—to the warmer drafts of spring. It always appears as if the frigid wall of cold will win the struggle, and blot out all the progress of the new, spring tendrils. But in the end, spring always appears—casually at first, but once it begins, there is no stopping the gentle, insistent progress of green, and pastel hues.   

Then, in the midst of my vernal grumbling, dawned the awareness that I do not need to grasp the complexities of this annual ebb and flow of air and blossoms. I only need to know that the pattern is consistent and reliable, despite my observations and reservations. Those diligent filaments of frost will finally give way to the enthralling beauty of spring … like a curtain, that will rise only when everything is ready and in place. I do not need to wring my hands and worry that spring will not appear this year. For it will … with me or without me. It is a constant. And this thought fills me with … chagrin. Honestly, I can be such a dolt sometimes. 

Why do I worry needlessly about events I cannot control, and truths that I cannot possibly affect? These absolutes were set in immutable motion long before I took breath, and they will stand long after I am gone. Why do I spend precious time worrying about things like seasons, and natural disasters, and human events? Jesus said,

"Look at the birds in the sky; they do not sow or reap, they gather nothing into barns, yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are not you more important than they?” (Matthew 6:26) 

It’s a reasonable question, I think. You can almost hear the exasperation in Jesus’ voice. After all He has revealed about God to His disciples and followers, they still worry about things like food, and clothing, and storms. Think of it for a moment: The Son of God, the Word Incarnate, the Savior of the World walks among them, and still ... they worry.

That question is just as relevant now as it was then. Jesus wants us to look past our mundane ruminations and cast aside our worries to focus on the one, true Constant … more reliable than climates, or seasons, or phases of the moon. It is Him. Jesus Christ. He is our Constant, in all things, in all events of human history, and in all matters of the heart. Civilizations will rise, and fall, but one thing I know: He is the One, True, Constant. He will provide for us, just as He does for the birds, and the lilies, and the wildflowers ... and even more than this! Because we are so important to Him.   

I wish you all a warm and brilliant spring, fellow pilgrims! 

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Copyright 2024 Sarah Torbeck
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