Wasted

Wednesday, December 15, 2010

What do I worry about? You posed this question last night.
I evaded it, as best I could.

What do I worry about?
A lot.
Who doesn't?
And why does knowing what I worry about really matter?
Does it help you know me better?
Does it expound on the complexities of another?
Does it gash open vulnerabilities, raw and exposed?

Perhaps.

For starters I worry about the speed of this relationship. I worry that you have expectations of me that I may not be able to fulfill.

For most of my life I've worried that I'll end up alone.
That I'll never marry. That I'll remain celibate and without children of my own.
And because of that, I worry about my commitment to a gospel and a church that celebrates all things family and few things single.

I worry about not being good enough.
Pretty enough.
Intelligent enough.
Conversational enough.
Funny enough.
Daring enough.
Caring enough.
Loving enough.

I worry that I'll spend the rest of my waking hours behind a computer monitor, not doing what I really love.

I worry that I might lose my eyesight or that, like my father, I'll die at age thirty-eight.
I worry that I might one day have to leave my beloved city of D.C..
I worry that I might not travel to all the places I want to before I die.
I worry that my worries are so time consuming and detrimental to my soul.

I worry that, because of all these worries, I'll never be loved.
By myself.
Or by another.

It is a boon to bare.
But cast not away therefore your confidence.*

This is not meant to be.
And so I think I shall worry less.
Because worry is waste and life ought not be wasted.

*Hebrews 10:35

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