That thin-scraped feeling

There's a line from "The Lord of the Rings" where Bilbo Baggins confesses his fatigue to his friend Gandalf. "I feel thin," says Bilbo, "sort of stretched, like butter scraped over too much bread." This is how it's been for me lately, between work and writing and trying to remain relevant in my houseful of boys. I feel tired when I wake up, and worn down, and I am filled with dread, and an odd hope that something will give. Something has to give.

Ever feel that way?

I'm struck, in the midst of this thin-butter feeling, by how much of my exhaustion is born in worry. The work is the work, as everybody earning a paycheck and raising children understands. You feed them and clothe them and make the boss happy and answer the phone and make sure you get a cover sheet on that TPS Report, and sometimes there's no room left for lunch, or a conversation with a friend, or a nap.

That's just the way of an adult with real responsibility. It's the worry, however, that seeps in between these responsibilities like thick chinking, clogging up my thoughts until everything seems heavy, and dread-filled. This is the source, I think, of my thin feeling. I worry that I won't get everything done. That my children will get sick, or not learn a foreign language. That I'll get even fatter. That my boss will be even more unhappy. That I won't get a book contract. That I'll quote the wrong Bible verse in one of my essays, or commit some egregious heresy.

I worry about whether our financial institution will plunder our savings, and whether that strange sound coming from my minivan will be expensive. Will my wife's hypoglycemia turn into diabetes? Will we ever sell our house so we can move to the country? Can we afford the move? Will I break something valuable when we move, like my foot? Will my allergies flare up once we live in a field? Will there be snakes?

I get so bound up in the what-might-happens and the am-I-doing-this-rights, and then to make matters worse, I teach my children to do the same. Then I worry about that, about how I'm not only worrying myself into an early grave, but burdening my sons with the same uneasiness in their own skins that has haunted me since I was a child.

It's all a matter of unfaith, I suppose, which is what I call that peculiar state in which so many of us find ourselves, believing in a grace-filled, sovereign God, yet cringing daily -- by the minute, in my case -- at what he might allow. I believe, Lord; help my unbelief. I trust you, Lord; help me to lay down my mistrust.

I know I'm not the only one. So here's my prayer for me, today, and for you -- that we put the things before us in the proper order, that we face each challenge with grace, each task in its turn without anxiety about the next, and that we would put our heads on our pillows at the end of the day, trusting that the Lord really does see us as his children, that he really does provide what we need, and that the world does not cease turning at our failures. I pray peace for you and your house today, and for me and mine. Amen.

I believe, Lord. Help my unbelief.