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"Worry"

Is there a magic cutoff period when offspring become
accountable for their own actions? Is there a
wonderful moment when parents can become detached
spectators in the lives of their children and shrug,
"It's their life," and feel nothing?

When I was in my twenties, I stood in a hospital
corridor waiting for doctors to put a few stitches
in my son's head. I asked, "When do you stop
worrying?" The nurse said, "When they get out of the
accident stage." My mother just smiled faintly and
said nothing.

When I was in my thirties, I sat on a little chair
in a class-room and heard how one of my children
talked incessantly, disrupted the class, and was
headed for a career making license plates. As if to
read my mind, a teacher said, "Don't worry, they all
go through this stage and then you can sit back,
relax and enjoy them." My mother just smiled faintly and said nothing.

When I was in my forties, I spent a lifetime waiting
for the phone to ring, the cars to come home, the
front door to open. A friend said, "They're trying
to find themselves. Don't worry, in a few years, you
can stop worrying. They'll be adults." My mother
just smiled faintly and said nothing.

By the time I was 50, I was sick &tired of being
vulnerable. I was still worrying over my children,
but there was a new wrinkle there was nothing I
could do about it. My mother just smiled faintly and
said nothing.

I continued to anguish over their failures, be tormented by their frustrations and absorbed in their disappointments.

My friends said that when my kids got married I
could stop worrying and lead my own life. I wanted
to believe that, but I was haunted by my mother's
warm smile and her occasional, "You look pale. Are
you all right? Call me the minute you get home. Are
you depressed about something?"

Can it be that parents are sentenced to a lifetime
of worry? Is concern for one another handed down
like a torch to blaze the trail of human frailties
and the fears of the unknown? Is concern a curse or
is it a virtue that elevates us to the highest form
of life?

One of my children became quite irritable recently,
saying to me, "Where were you? I've been calling for
3 days, and no one answered. I was worried." I
smiled a warm smile. The torch has been passed.

He did not let go.
Some years ago on a hot summer day in South Florida a little
boy decided to go for a swim in the old swimming hole behind
his house. In a hurry to dive into the cool water, he ran out
the back door, leaving behind shoes, socks, and shirt as he went.
He flew into the water, not realising that as he swam toward the
middle of the lake an alligator was swimming toward the shore.

His mother, in the house looking out the window, saw the two as
they got closer and closer together. In utter fear, she ran toward
the water, yelling to her son as loudly as she could. Hearing her
voice, the little boy became alarmed and made a U-turn to swim
to his mother.

It was too late. Just as he reached her, the alligator reached him.
From the dock, the mother grabbed her little boy by the arms just
as the alligator snatched his legs. That began an incredible tug-of-war
between the two. The alligator was much stronger than the mother,
but the mother was Much too passionate to let go.

A farmer happened to drive by, heard her screams, raced from
his truck, took aim and shot the alligator. Remarkably, after
weeks and weeks in the hospital, the little boy survived. His
legs were extremely scarred by the vicious attack of the animal.
And, on his arms, were deep scratches where his mother's
fingernails dug into his flesh in her effort to hang on to the son
she loved.

The newspaper reporter who interviewed the boy after the trauma,
asked if he would show him his scars. The boy lifted his pant legs.
And then, with obvious pride, he said to the reporter, "But look at
my arms. I have great scars on my arms, too. I have them
because my mom wouldn't let go.!!

You and I can identify with that little boy. We have scars, too.
No, not from an alligator, or anything quite so dramatic. But,
the scars of a painful past.Some of those scars are unsightly
and have caused us deep regret. But, some wounds, my friend,
are because God has refused to let go.In the midst of your struggle,
He's been there holding onto you.

The Scripture teaches that God loves you. If you have Christ in
your life, you have become a child of God. He wants to protect
you and provide for you in every way. But sometimes we foolishly
wade into dangerous situations. The swimming hole of life is filled
with peril - and we forget that the enemy is waiting to attack.

That's when the tug-of-war begins, and if you have the scars of
His love on your arms be very, very grateful.

He did not - and will not - let you go.
Author unknown.