Stephanie Rische

Blogger and Writer: Capturing Stories of God's Grace

Anxiety in High Gear

I have a rather embarrassing confession to make: when I was single, I had the subconscious notion that if I got married, all my anxieties would magically disappear. Ridiculous, I know. It turns out I’m the same Anxious Annie with a ring that I was without one. Now I just have another target to worry about.

One year ago, over Memorial Day weekend, my worrywart tendencies showed up in full force, and before it was all over, things got downright ugly.

My husband, Daniel, is an avid cyclist, and anytime he sees a long stretch of pavement without cars on it, he practically starts salivating. We went out of town for the weekend, and he got the notion to ride his bicycle home. All 67 miles. As if that weren’t cause enough for worry, he didn’t have a map, it was 98 degrees with the heat index, and he was going straight into a 20-mile-an-hour headwind.

Sixty-seven miles. Four and a half hours. That’s a long while to worry.

dwr bike

Then our next-door neighbor called and said our garage door was wide open. Had we closed it before we left? I thought so, but I couldn’t be sure. The likely scenario was that we’d inadvertently left it open, not that some conniving thief had wrangled his way in and left the door open as some kind of twisted signature. But who ever said worry is rational?

With my anxiety in high gear already, that was all it took to put me over the edge. As I drove the 67 miles home, I created multiple disaster scenarios in my head: Daniel was on an ambulance somewhere in Wisconsin, being pumped with liquids as they tried to save him from dehydration. Or maybe he’d gotten a flat tire and hitched a ride with the very same creepy guy who had broken into our house. Or most likely the thief was still camping out behind the couch in our living room, biding his time so he could jump me the moment I walked in the door.

Fortunately my husband is a patient man, and he let me cry it out over the phone while my incoherent fears came tumbling out.

When I finished blubbering, he said, “What time will you get home? I’ll call you back, and I’ll walk you in.”

When I hung up, I had a flash of realization: I’d just spent 40-some miles stewing and worrying and generally getting my panties in a bunch, but I hadn’t so much as whispered a prayer. How different would the trip home have been if I’d confessed my worry to God and asked him to stand guard over Daniel’s bicycle tires instead of going around and around on my gerbil wheel of worry?

Can all your worries add a single moment to your life? And if worry can’t accomplish a little thing like that, what’s the use of worrying over bigger things?

—Luke 12:25-26

True to his word, Daniel called and walked me in when I arrived home. It turned out there was no crime scene, no trace of a sneaky garage thief. And several hours later Daniel arrived home in one piece, requiring no detours to the hospital.

God has promised to hold our hand as we go through whatever scary doors before us. But first we have to open our hand and let go of the worries we’re clinging to so tightly.

Only then can he grab our hand in his and walk us in.

I hold you by your right hand—

I, the Lord your God.

And I say to you,

“Don’t be afraid. I am here to help you.”

—Isaiah 41:13

 ***

This year Daniel made the same trek over Memorial Day weekend—all 67 miles again—only this time instead of scorching heat, there were threatening rainclouds. I still have a long way to go in the worrywart department, but this time I pictured God beside me, hanging on to my right hand as I drove. (Don’t worry, I kept the other hand on the wheel, just in case.)

daniel and steph

Dumpster Diving

Six months after we got married, Daniel discovered, to his great dismay, that his wedding ring had accidentally been thrown in the trash.

He was just wrapping up after a long day at his full-time position and then a stint at his part-time job when he looked down at his finger and realized it was bare. He mentally retraced the events of the day, when all at once it dawned on him: the gloves.

In his job working with special needs students, Daniel often has occasion to wear disposable gloves, and somewhere around midday he remembered turning the gloves inside out and tossing them in the trash. Had he seen the ring since? He frantically made some phone calls, hoping to stop the trash before it was taken to the dumpster.

No such luck. The next morning he arrived at work before the sun came up, bedecked in his grubbiest clothes and his most determined expression.

The ring was important to Daniel—not just because of its objective value, but also because it represented the commitment he’d made. The ring was a tangible symbol of our wedding day: “With this ring, I thee wed” and all. He was willing to go to great lengths to scavenge for it, despite the obstacles and grime he’d have to wade through in the process.

As I read Luke 15, I’m struck by God’s willingness to roll up his sleeves and dive into our grimy world to bring us back to him.

Jesus tells three parables in this chapter—one about a shepherd who leaves his whole flock to chase down a runaway lamb, one about a woman who loses a coin and turns her entire house upside down to find it, and one about a father who runs to greet his beloved son who once was lost but now is found.

God is willing to dive into the dumpster on our behalf because he sees value in us, even when we’re covered in muck. And besides, he has made a commitment to us. No amount of garbage will hold him back.

An interesting side note about each of Jesus’ parables is that once each item has been found, a party ensues. There is much rejoicing—over the lost sheep, the lost coin, the lost son.

I got a phone call from Daniel later that morning, and sure enough, he’d found the ring! And yes, there was much rejoicing (after a bit of scrubbing and Clorox). The lost had been found.

Thank you, God, for going to great lengths to bring us back to you. Thank you for keeping your commitment to us. And thank you for diving into the dumpster on our behalf.

Have you ever lost something and gone to great lengths to find it again?

I’ve taken the challenge of reading the Bible chronologically this year and tracing the thread of grace through it. These musings are prompted by my reading. I’d love to have you join me: One Year Bible reading plan.

Like Amish Peanut Butter

I have a weakness for peanut butter. On any given day, you’d likely find four jars of the stuff in our pantry: generic creamy, chunky, the brand-name “good stuff”… and a backup.

So when I received homemade Amish peanut butter from one of the authors my company works with, you can imagine my delight. Just one spoonful was enough for me to know I’d be ruined for all other peanut butter for the rest of time. In all my years of history with peanut butter, I’d never tasted such gooey, creamy, sweet deliciousness. The fact that it was made from scratch by a Pennsylvania woman in a bonnet only added to its divinity.

As I was eating my toasted peanut butter sandwich, I was reminded of the quote a friend of mine uses as part of her signature at the bottom of e-mails:

God spreads his grace thick and gloppy…the way a child spreads peanut butter.

It struck me as I took another bite that something like Amish peanut butter isn’t meant to be skimped on or rationed out. It isn’t meant to be analyzed for calorie count or obsessed over for exactly which spot on my hips it’s bound to end up.

Forgive me if this sounds a touch sacrilegious, but maybe my friend’s quote is right—maybe grace isn’t so different from peanut butter. God spreads his grace with such extravagance that it gets messy and smears all over us, until the globs rub off onto other people too.

When Jesus interacted with people, he was often accused by the religious folk of being too generous with grace. On one occasion when he was eating dinner with a group of people, he was approached by an “immoral woman” (Luke 7:36-50). Jesus didn’t condone the choices she’d made, but he extended forgiveness to her nonetheless. Forgiveness of the thick and gloppy variety.

I tell you, her sins—and they are many—have been forgiven, so she has shown me much love.

—Luke 7:47

Having received extravagant forgiveness, she responded with extravagant gratitude:

She brought a beautiful alabaster jar filled with expensive perfume. Then she knelt behind him at his feet, weeping. Her tears fell on his feet, and she wiped them off with her hair. Then she kept kissing his feet and putting perfume on them.

—Luke 7:37-38

No matter how hard we try, we’ll never deserve God’s extravagant grace. But we do have a choice about how we’ll receive it. Will we clench our teeth and portion it out over so many bread crumbs? Will we nibble each bite guiltily, washing it down with the sour milk of regret?

Or will we take in the gift the way it was meant to be received, with joy and abundance and overflowing gratitude, the way the woman in the book of Luke did?

May my peanut butter communion remind me of how God intends his grace to be: thick and gloppy. Like Amish peanut butter.

I’ve taken the challenge of reading the Bible chronologically this year and tracing the thread of grace through it. These musings are prompted by my reading. I’d love to have you join me: One Year Bible reading plan.