As my little girl grows up, I watch with quiet desperation how her innocence begins to recede to the background. The old simple jokes that made her laugh again and again are now silly, the complete freedom with which she skipped all over the world and its problems is beginning to allow bits of worry into her magical world. Questions about the state of the world arise causing a frown to form on her previously every radiant and smiling face. Nothing prepares a parent for the inevitable letting go of their child’s innocence. We hold on to it desperately, we pray that the hugs will last longer, that the laughter will ring louder and that worry will keep its fangs away from our babies.
When we have too much to handle, when we take on more than we can cope with, when life pressures us beyond our capacity, when our loads are just too big, we panic, and when we panic, we worry. Worry is a cruel artist, it favors the face for a canvas and its best skill is engraving. Yes, on our forehead, that’s where worry likes to play.