Handing over what is not mine

I was up worrying the other night. It happens. Worry is a spiritual gift I received from my mother, and I have worked hard to perfect that which was passed on to me. I also work not to pass it on to my daughter, but I worry that I am failing in that.

Anyway, I was worrying the other night when what I really wanted to be doing was falling asleep. It was the end of a long day, the house was quiet, all other living creatures under our roof were asleep, and there I was, worrying. Someone once defined worry as “misuse of the imagination.” Yes, it is. Finally my desire to sleep won over my need to worry, and I decided to hand it all over to Jesus.

Now I really don’t consider myself that kind of Jesus person. I usually don’t hand it over to the Lord, nor do I think that he walks with me or talks with me in the “In the Garden” sort of way. My prayers tend to be to God, not to Jesus. I mean, I’m good with him, but I do like to keep my distance. But that night I decided I really needed to hand it all over to him. So I pictured what I was handing over, and it was a spherical-shaped thing, a tangle of worries that might best be represented by barbed wire, lima beans, the insoles of my daughter’s summer Keens, and all those random electronic cables you stick in a drawer because you have no idea what they’re for. Roll all that up into a ball, and those were the worries I wanted to hand over to Jesus. Lucky him.