Think back to when you were twelve years old for a second. For you women, that was like fifteen years ago, I realize, but for many of us guys that was a really long time ago.
For me, I have to go back to when Richard Nixon was in the White House, when something cool was “groovy” and when Marcia Brady was the prettiest girl on television.
Anyone else ever have a paisley shirt? Put your hand down, kid, I’m not talking about a Brad Paisley concert T shirt. I’m talking about the stuff car seats were made of.
My family lived in a two-story house on Redbud Drive and if we kids ever wanted to get anywhere – whether it was a friend’s house or school -- we walked. Kids call 911 if they’re asked to walk anywhere nowadays.
I had the greatest life. I had a million friends within a hundred yards of my front door, and we always had something to do – even though we didn’t have video games or computers. Yes, there was electricity. And no, Ben Franklin wasn’t a classmate. Can someone shut that kid up?
I had life made in the shade. Mom fixed dinner every night, and Dad made enough money to allow us to live comfortably. I was free to go anywhere I wanted so long as I was home by dark.
I had absolutely nothing to worry about -- no job, no bills and no responsibilities for any other person on the planet, though sometimes I had to watch my little brother Joey when Mom ran to the store, and I solved that problem by stuffing him in a closet.
I played ball all day. I was Joe Namath, Walt Frazier and Pete Rose all rolled into one. If I had any worry, it was in deciding which professional sport I would play. There was no question I would play one of them.
Great stuff. Why did I have to grow older?
I think of that now as I watch the news and hear all the talk about a financial crisis. I have a mortgage and children to care for. This is on the heels of a power outage, gas hikes, and weirdos we all have to deal with. How do I keep control on all of it?
Oddly, I sometimes think I keep control by worrying.
That’s what I should do, right? By worrying, I keep my priorities right there in front of me, all the time, ready to be manipulated so everything can turn out just like I want it to. Besides, no one else seems to care about this stuff anyway – I’m just a martyr stranded in the middle of the ocean -- so just leave it to me.
But we all know it doesn’t work that way.
Worry, control, manipulation. They all go hand in hand and cause much more harm than good.
For spiritual people, this is a reminder that we’re all still twelve in God’s eyes. The Earth is a finely-tuned mechanism that would explode if even slight changes occurred. The human body is incredibly complex – consider the human eye, for example -- impossible to be the product of evolution. Something bigger is behind it all, folks.
Time after time we are told not to worry. Does it do any good? Love freely, live happily, and dance to the sound of the wind. Twelve-year-olds can do that because they don’t know what they don’t know and they’re okay with that.
Somehow, when we get older, all that changes. We think we have to fix everything. Or control it. And we worry ourselves to death in the meantime.
So here is our invitation: Take a chill pill. The market will rebound, as it always has, and houses will start selling again. Time is replete with natural disasters and unreasonable people, and recovery eventually comes.
Let’s get off this control treadmill that never stops, and wears you out along the way.
Let’s go back to being twelve again – if not physically, then emotionally. Focus on the moment right now, not the one three weeks from now when you have a doctor’s appointment, and not the one years ago when someone dealt you a tragic blow.
Look at the sunny day. There are parks to walk in and landmarks to see. Surely there’s someone you need to talk to who you haven’t seen in a long time. Later, go down to the K with your family to share a banana split. Through it all, if you tackle responsibilities the way you should, the bills will get paid.
Besides, you don’t have time to worry about that anyway.
Tag, you’re it. How groovy is that?