I once spent a whole night worrying about a bug bite. Well, eight of them, to be precise. My son had been playing outside that afternoon and came in with a strange assortment of bites across his shoulder that didn’t look like anything I’d seen before. They weren’t your average Southeast Missouri mosquito bites, but I applied a topical medication anyway. And then I laid in bed all night wondering if my son was going to have some kind of anaphylactic reaction in the night. What if I don’t hear him in the night? What if those were poisonous bites? What if I missed something? Should we go to the hospital?
I once spent a whole night worrying about a stomachache. We’d been through a difficult week of stomach bugs while my husband was away on a trip, and the thought of another week mothering through a virus prevented any pretense of sleeping that night. I laid awake all night listening for the first cry of distress from my kids upstairs. What if we’re all sick again? What if I have to endure another week of vomiting kids and perpetual laundry? What if I can’t do it?
I once spent a whole night worrying about a power outage while staying in a hotel room. I was nervous about a work-related meeting the next morning, and when the whole city went dark for a few hours, I panicked in the worst way. What if I can’t leave this hotel? What if I miss my flight home? What if my mind goes blank at my meeting tomorrow?
How many wasted hours of worry have I logged in my life? I could have been sleeping. I could have been praying. I could have been prying back my fingers from the grip of imagined sovereign control. I know that worry is a form of unbelief, and yet, I’ve struggled to unwind my lack of faith in God’s care for me from my fear of the worst happening. I know that God doesn’t promise to always keep us physically safe. There’s no guarantee that the worst won’t happen on this earth, and somehow, in the middle of the night, instead of sleeping, I try to hold the threads of safe living together with my anxious, worrisome hedging. I find it strange that I don’t have a problem trusting the Lord with my eternity, but I am loathe to trust him with my day.
All those nights of worrying and planning? None of it has ever helped. I haven’t escaped any life circumstances by worrying, and I haven’t protected my kids from anything by worrying. Jesus wasn’t kidding when he said that we can’t add a single hour to our lives by worrying.[1] Obsessing over the potential for disaster doesn’t lengthen your life or the lives of your loved ones. God has ordered our days, and if that’s not a comfort to you, I can understand that. I’ve misunderstood his love after walking through suffering, and I’ve found that in a protective measure, I often live like I’m waiting for his shoe to drop at any moment, crushing my hopes and dreams with glee. As if I needed to be protected from the One who awakened my dead heart and gave me everlasting life. He is trustworthy, he is. He loves us. Jesus said that God is so conscientious of the birds that he never fails to feeds them faithfully so it’s certainly safe to trust him with our lives for we matter much more to him than birds.[2]
A few months ago, I was about to begin onto one of my nighttime worry rituals. There was a flight the next day, and I pictured myself gripping the armrest tightly throughout the flight like I always do—as though holding the armrest with all my might somehow keeps the plane in the air. And I laughed because there isn’t anything as ludicrous as believing that one’s white-knuckled grip on a piece of plastic in economy seating has anything to do with keeping an airplane in the sky. And isn’t that how all our worrying is? Useless. Wasteful. Ridiculous. It’s silly to give ourselves to sleepless nights, to circle the drain of what-ifs, as though we are keeping the universe in place. That’s not our job. The Lord is holding all things together.[3] He’s really good at it. And he loves us—for if he did not even spare his own Son, won’t he give us all that we need for this life?[4] I’m not talking about promised safety, smooth flights, healthy kids, or worry-free living. I’m talking about resting in the knowledge that if God has ordained something difficult for your life, you can trust him to walk through it with you in love and faithfulness.
I went to bed that night with a personal imperative which I now quote to myself nearly every night when I turn out the light: Go to sleep, for God is awake and he loves you very much. Sometimes the things we worry over are real and serious realities. Kids get sick. Friends die. Bodies break. Finances crumble. Careers slip away. Relationships end. Cars crash. Storms rage. We can’t ignore the difficult things that we face in this life, and we don’t have to pretend to be impervious to the hurts and dangers of life on a broken, fallen planet. And yet, we also don’t have to pretend that we’re somehow preventing all the imagined bad things from happening by lying awake hatching together a rescue plan. The Rescuer has already come. We can trust him with today and tonight because he has promised us an eternity of peace. We can trust him with forever.
Last week, I stood on the beach in my winter coat, eyes watering against the frigid wind blowing in from the Gulf of Mexico. A sandpiper hopped around my feet, scurrying into the waves and pecking for little clams in the sand. On the flight down, I had held the armrest on the plane like a normal person. Normally, not frantically. I stood and watched the sun settle into the far side of the sea, watched the sandpiper skip about, and I felt the smallness of my life. Important, but small. And it was good. No one that small can do anything about the sun setting behind the sea or providing food for every little seaside bird. That’s the Lord’s work. And he is really good at it. So go to sleep, for God is awake and he loves you very much.
If God has ordained something difficult for your life, you can trust him to walk through it with you in love and faithfulness. Share on X
[1] Matt. 6:27
[2] Matt. 6:26
[3] Col. 1:17
[4] Rom. 8:32
Photo credit: My mom, who snapped this picture when I wasn’t looking.
Glenna Marshall is married to her pastor, William, and lives in rural Southeast Missouri where she tries and fails to keep up with her two energetic sons. She is the author of The Promise is His Presence (P&R) and Everyday Faithfulness (Crossway), and Memorizing Scripture (Moody). Connect with her on Instagram, Facebook, and Twitter.