Worry Looks a lot Like Love, But It's Not

If you follow the news, there’s a lot to worry about these days: violent and deadly wars in both Israel/Palestine and in Ukraine, a deadly earthquake in Afghanistan, a hurricane in Mexico, a mass shooting in Maine—events so horrific a person can hardly comprehend the terror. And then there’s the added concerns of disfunction in the US Congress and dissatisfaction (terror?) with the likely nominees for President.  

 

But even not counting the global and national scale of worry—each of us probably has plenty of personal concerns keeping us awake at night. Work worries, financial worries, couple worries, children worries.  We’ve all got worries.

 

So we, you and I and everyone we know—we worry.

 

But really does it do any good?

 

Tamara Runia, a leader in my church, recently shared her father’s philosophy: “He'd learned from experience that worry feels a lot like love, but it's not the same.”

 

This struck me because I have regularly felt that love is the reason for my worry. I love my family, I love my country, I love the world and the earth. Since I love, of course I worry.

 

I am an expert worrier. When my 9-year-old daughter forgot to do her state report until the night before, I lay awake worrying she would flunk out of high school. (For the record, she was a straight-A student, graduated from university with honors, and raised three lovely children.) When my 14-year-old son was late getting back from band camp, I worried he was out carousing and on his way to Juvie. (For the record, the band bus was late, and he went on to get an MFA, become a prize-winning photographer, and a successful business owner.)

Sometimes I have joked: Yeah, I worry. And you can be grateful I do. It’s my worry that keeps this family going!”

So Sister Runia’s words stopped me. “Worry feels a lot like love, but it’s not the same.” 

 

Really?

 

I did a quick google search to confirm, and found this, in an article by Andrew Bernstein in Psychology Today:

 

“For my friend and millions like her, worry is a sign of love. It says that, even though I am okay, I am selfless enough to suffer vicariously for you. And isn't that the definition of love? Wouldn't it be uncaring not to feel terrible for others, given what some people have to deal with?

“At the risk of giving worriers everywhere nothing to do, the answer is no.”

I should have known. My dad used to say worry is like a rocking in a rocking chair; you feel like you are getting somewhere, but you never do. It’s useless.

Bernstein goes on to point out, 

When you worry about someone else, you teach them that things aren't going to be okay. . .  . You become someone who rejects life in the name of some imaginary future, and in that act of rejection, you teach misery. All of this, of course, is done innocently and with the best intentions, simply because you believe worry is love. But it isn't.

So, according to Bernstein--all that obsessing about the awful things going on in the world and worry about being on the brink of disaster, all that worry about your children or spouse or friend-- all that worry is only making everything worse. It may even contribute to the disasters you fear. 

By worrying, you are teaching those around you--and, worse yet, yourself--that things will get worse. There is nothing you can do. It’s awful.

So truly, worry will not help your kids. Worry will not help the world or the climate or Washington politics. And worse yet, worry makes things worse.

What does help? 

In Philippians 4, the apostle Paul suggests “by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your request be made known unto God” and then “think on” “whatsoever things are true, . . .just,. . . pure, lovely, of good report.” (Philippians 4:8)

As Mr. Rogers always said, look for the helpers. Focus on the good in the world. Have faith that good will prevail. And look for what you can do to help. 

Contribute to a charity helping war refugees or to a fund for the families of the mass shooting victims. Work for a cause that may limit world conflict or cut back on mass shootings.

And for your personal relationships—your children, your husband, and your friends--I like what Tamara Runia suggests:

Our job is not to teach someone who’s going through a rough patch that they are bad or disappointing. . . . let’s tell our loved ones in spoken and unspoken ways the messages they long to hear: “Our family feels whole and complete because you are in it.” “You will be loved for the rest of your life—no matter what.”

Jesus Christ, on the eve of his arrest and crucifixion, taught this truth, “In the world ye shall have tribulation.” Yes, bad things are going to happen, to you personally and to those around you.

And yet, he said, “Be of good cheer; I have overcome the world.”

As we face the horrible things happening in the world and perhaps in our own lives, we need to try not to worry. Because worry is not love. 

Love is faith and hope and good works. Love is good cheer. Love is the way we can look forward to a future of happiness, in our families and in the world.