A seed of worry

Things should be easing up now that we are coming to the end of the year. Theoretically, November and December is the time of the year to take things easy, take the foot off the accelerator, and coast into the new year amid colourful Christmas lights and a general feeling of well-being.

But, no.

I have a seed of worry gnawing at my sanity. I wish it would go away.

I know the promises: God will take care of you; he knows the number of hairs on your head; everything works together for the good of those who love him... I don't doubt these great and precious promises. But do you know what my problem is? I am keenly aware that what I want may not necessarily be what God wants.

Good people die everyday according to God's will, do you know what I mean? And somehow the knowledge that it must be God's will should be sufficient for the little person; yet, it is but a cold comfort.

Horatio Spafford wrote the great legacy of a hymn "It is well with my soul" after he lost all four of his daughters in a shipwreck. If it were me, even if I knew all possible outcomes, even if I knew that everyone will die someday anyway, I would still clutch tightly to those I love, and never let go. In all my choices, I always favour the imperfect present over the elusive future, because, well, I am only human.

Nevertheless, words have power to create a vision of something not-yet-here, so these are the words of Horatio, born of much personal suffering.

When peace, like a river, attendeth my way,
When sorrows like sea billows roll;
Whatever my lot, Thou has taught me to say,
It is well, it is well, with my soul.

Though Satan should buffet, though trials should come,
Let this blest assurance control,
That Christ has regarded my helpless estate,
And hath shed His own blood for my soul.

My sin, oh, the bliss of this glorious thought!
My sin, not in part but the whole,
Is nailed to the cross, and I bear it no more,
Praise the Lord, praise the Lord, O my soul!

For me, be it Christ, be it Christ hence to live:
If Jordan above me shall roll,
No pang shall be mine, for in death as in life
Thou wilt whisper Thy peace to my soul.

But, Lord, 'tis for Thee, for Thy coming we wait,
The sky, not the grave, is our goal;
Oh trump of the angel! Oh voice of the Lord!
Blessèd hope, blessèd rest of my soul!

And Lord, haste the day when my faith shall be sight,
The clouds be rolled back as a scroll;
The trump shall resound, and the Lord shall descend,
Even so, it is well with my soul.