When Edna St. Vincent (Millay) Came For A Visit

When Edna St. Vincent (Millay) Came for a Visit

It was a typical Tuesday: slow, after Monday's rush. Only two customers had come in since we had opened two hours earlier. I was sitting at the desk, taking care of some paperwork and considering which stack of new trade-ins to attack when the phone rang. The woman on the other end of the line said she was cleaning out her mother’s things; there were a couple boxes of old books, would I be interested in looking at them for purchase? Yes, I said, when should I expect her?  She said she would come by after lunch, maybe closer to two, and she hung up without saying goodbye.

When she arrived, somewhere between lunchtime and two, she had two small Lowes’ moving boxes, each about half full of books. I glanced at the titles on top; would she prefer to browse while I prepared the offer or come back later in the afternoon? She said she would come back later around three or maybe four. She started to turn, then hesitated, saying, as if to answer a question I had not asked, “My mom was in an assisted living home. These were on the shelf in her room.” Her voice caught, she paused, and then added, “And I don’t want them.” She pushed open the door and walked out, the bell dinging behind her.

I started making an inventory list of the first box: a dozen cheap romance novels, a couple of best sellers, an Oprah book club selection, and a couple miscellaneous fiction books. Nothing exciting. I made a note of what I thought the box was worth.  In the next box were two coffee table photo books – the kind that folks used to have laying out, whether they had visited those places or not – one of England and one of Germany. I set them aside. Next were three history books covering the European theater of World War 2 and a pair of photo books of the war. Odd, I thought, that the same woman who had harlequin romances would have military history books in her small library; those don’t usually go together. I lifted them out of the box.

There was one hardback book left in the box. I lifted the slender, orange colored, cloth-bound hardback out and looked at it. It was obviously old, styled from the early/mid 1900s. The title-less cover of the book had a simple, gold weave around the edge, nothing more. The spine was also gilded with gold weave, and had only two words on it, each in its own box. The top box simply said POEMS; below, in a black box, was the author’s name, standing out as starkly as a name carved into a black granite tombstone: MILLAY.

Edna St. Vincent Millay was a semi-popular poet around the time of the Great Depression. I have been a fan of hers since I was in high school when Mrs. Winnie Karens gave me some of her sonnets to read. Happy to reconnect with an old friend, and less-than-eager to get back to the overflowing stack of books demanding attention, I gave in to the temptation.

I pulled my stool out from under the counter and opened the book of poems. On the title page, in the top right corner, in impeccable, clear penmanship was written, “G. Schaeffer – 1942.” I glanced at the stack of WW2 books at my left; the date made me wonder. And, what did G stand for? Gertrude? Glennis? Maybe Grace, or Gracie?

I turned a few pages of the old book. The edges were reddish orange, but the paper was off-white - perhaps “eggshell” would be how Sherwin Williams would describe it - with only very slight aging along the edge. The book had been read, that was obvious, but it was well cared for. Strangely, the book kept trying to open itself, as if it had a secret to tell me. I placed the open book on the counter and lifted my fingers, then my hands, letting the pages separate and form a slight arch as if the book’s spine had been broken at that point.

As I slid my thumb into the narrow space and lifted gently, the pages rolled upward and to the left until the book lay almost flat. I looked down and saw words I recognized: “Sonnet XXX.” I heard myself murmuring aloud, from memory, not needing to read the text.

Love is not all: It is not meat nor drink,

Nor slumber against the rain…

Along the left and right edges of the pages there were a few slight smudges, as if thumbs had held the book open repeatedly for reading. The caught a slightly masculine scent rising from the page, leathery and smokey, very faint but still present. Was that pipe tobacco? At the bottom of the page, written in large, round, loopy and masculine cursive, was a note to his beloved: “My love will bring me back home to you. Yours, August.” Below was the date: 4 September, 1942.

I began to connect dots in my mind and a picture began to form. Millay’s book of poetry was a gift from August to his beloved Ms. G. – what was her name? – as he prepared to leave for war. He purchased the book at a local bookstore before shipping out. I could imagine his pipe dangling, carefree, from the corner of his mouth, a curl of smoke dancing around his mustache (why a mustache? Why not?) and kissing the side of his cheek, rubbing through his hair, and fading away. Perhaps he had read Millay first, as if they could share an intimate moment when she later read the book in private. Were they married, already, when he set sail? Or was she faithfully waiting for her fiancée to come home? Was his note merely a promise to return safely, or was it also a promise for a marriage to come?  Had  Ms. G held that book open, reading not only Millay’s words but also the promise of her beloved? How many times had she ached to hold him, whole and complete, so they could begin, or resume, their lives as husband and wife? Would the war change him? I imagined her sitting at a bay window, looking out to the east, willing and wishing he would suddenly appear, first a small dot on the horizon, then growing and growing into a man – her man – and she would rush out to his arms.

My reverie was interrupted by the jingle of the bell at the door as a customer entered the store. With a quick trip to the gardening section, a payment, and a hopeful “See you next time,” I was ready to return to Ms. G, Millay and August.

A few more pages had arched themselves upward, again. I helped the pages roll to another poem, revealing yet another mystery. This page had no writing, but it had yellowed significantly compared to the other pages I had viewed. Across the pages were marks where, it appeared, water had dripped, slightly altering the paper’s smooth texture to a raised grain. A hint of vanilla, iris, jasmine and musk rose from the page…was that Chanel No. 5 I was smelling? I started to scan the page and my palm rose to my mouth as I heard myself gasp.  The poem was titled, “Thou Famished Grave.”

Thou famished grave, I shall not fill thee yet.

I cannot starve thee out: I am thy prey
And thou shalt have me; but I dare defend
That I can stave thee off; and I dare say,
What with the life I lead, the force I spend,
I'll be but bones and jewels on that day,
And leave thee hungry even in the end.

My mind completed the picture. Ms. G. had gotten word that her love – was he beau or husband? Either way, the romantic - had died in the war. Although he promised to return, and although Millay said the grave would not be filled, the promises were not enough to keep the enemy’s weapons of war at bay. Where Sonnet XXX was read and treasured with its words and note of promise and hope, this page, and the famished grave, were marked with her tears of pain and loss. Where the Sonnet had been kept closed and protected, as if it were too much to leave it open and the hope fade, the sheer pain of the loss was too much to keep entrapped, preventing her from closing the poem. It, and she, aged slowly…

I wiped a tear from my eye as I imagined Ms. G sitting at her writing desk, tea cup full but cold, with the book of poems laying there – one page, once filled with hope but now mocking her pain; one page, once just a poem, now a final statement of irony as, somewhere, perhaps even in an unknown place, her beloved lay in the grave. I could see the tears that ran, large and wet, from her eyes, splashing on the open book below as she stared eastward, again, her beloved never to return.

I closed the book and set it aside on the counter, separate from the other books, while I stared out the window, gathering my thoughts. Silly me, I thought, letting my imagination run so wildly while there was work to be done. I finished figuring up my buy offer and went back to my desk to try to work, but I kept looking at the book, wondering about the fate of Ms. G and August. Finally, somewhere between 3 and 4 o’clock, she came through the door. “Do you have a price for me?” she asked. I touched the stack of books and gave her my price. She nodded; that sounded fine to her, but what about the orange book?

I smiled. “You said these were your mom’s books. I think this one might be special. You might want to keep this one. May I ask a silly question?” A nod. “Did your mother wear Chanel No. 5?” A quizzical look, but another nod. I motioned her to a stool at the counter. When she sat, I showed her “Sonnet XXX,” then the well-worn poem. “It’s a slow day. Why don’t you tell me about your her…”

And she did.

The Storied Book

The Storied Book

Once upon a time, there was a woman who owned a bookstore. When the local paper did a story on small businesses in the community, the store was described as “quaint.” At first, she was disappointed by the moniker. Quaint described the Red Hat Society, tea parties with cucumber sandwiches and Gingerbread houses with swaybacked roofs. But when customers started coming, saying they wanted to see the quaint bookstore they read about in the paper, she acquiesced, at first grudgingly accepting and then growing to appreciate being quaint. Her store wasn’t Fox Books, of Tom Hanks fame. Hers was more like Meg Ryan’s: special and unique. It was, well, quaint.

She sold used books, mostly, with customers trading, selling and swapping to get a new-to-them book. Occasionally, a regular customer would ask if she could order a new copy of a book because they just couldn’t wait for it to be traded in by someone else. She would smile and make a comment about “having to check her warehouse” while logging into her Amazon account, and then quote the price, plus just a little bit for her trouble. It wasn’t about the money, it was the service, knowing they would be back in a few weeks, perhaps with that exact book, trading it in for something else.

Most of the time, books came and books went without much attention given. There were simply too many books on the shelves and on the floor, in boxes and in stacks, to pay that much attention to each and every book. Trade paperbacks with little birds at the bottom of the spine, harlequin romances with bare chested men and suggestively posed women, and hardback books with dust-cover artwork of goblets filled with sorcerer’s brew crossed and re-crossed the counter. Like the Children of Israel leaving the constraints of Egypt to head to the Promised Land, books left her store for local customers’ homes, classrooms, and Little Free Libraries all across the world, thanks to her website.

Now and then, a special book would catch her attention. Sometimes it was a spine’s unique printing that made her eyes stop and look twice, or maybe it was the intricate artwork across the cover, or the soft, embossed leather, or even the price tag – “TG&Y - $1.95” – that made her hold the book, wondering what it’s story was. Where had it been, whose hands held it, how many times was it read (if at all), how did it get from the Boston Public Library (stamped “DISCARD”) to South Texas, and who had purchased it in the first place? Had it been a father’s gift to his young daughter as a peace-making gift after her parents divorced? Perhaps a teacher had it in her classroom, let a student borrow it, and it never got returned. Maybe a soldier had packed it in her duffle before going to Afghanistan, or a bored husband picked it up at the mall while waiting on his wife to finish shoe shopping, or maybe an elderly woman left it behind In the hospital room after her husband had passed, suddenly lacking the strength to carry those few ounces home.

But what was sure to set her mind wandering like Tootle the Train in a field of daisies was a book’s smell. There was something about a smell that could transport her to different places, times, and scenes in her mind’s eye. Books have smells, scents and aromas, and those powerful olfactory triggers would set off memories, or feelings, or pictures in the Viewmaster of her mind. One customer worked at Itsaburger and her trade-ins always made her hungry because they smelled of French fries and onion rings. Another customer was a custodian. He brought a book one day, saying it had been in his storage closet for “probably a year” and since he hadn’t read it, thought he would swap for something else. As soon as he left, she set it outside on the “FREE” table, because the pungent antiseptic smell of the custodial closet stirred a memory from her own life that she didn’t want to deal with. A well-used but serviceable copy of Norm Abram’s woodworking book – which included “measured drawerings” as Norm would say in his thick New England accent – smelled of the wood shavings that were trapped between its pages, and reminded her of her dad’s woodshop where, as a little girl, she would watch him make birdhouses for the neighborhood.

And, sometimes both the sight and smell were so intriguing, so mysterious, that she couldn’t help but stop. Her curiosity, piqued, would be fueled by her imagination and a story would form…

Strive to Enter the Narrow Door - Luke 13:22-30

Grace to you and peace from God our Father and from our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. Amen.

In this morning’s Gospel reading, Jesus is speaking spiritual language, spiritual door language, spiritual entry language. This is in answer to a man’s question, “Will those who are saved be few?” St. Luke doesn’t give us anything about the mindset of the question-asker, but I am reading it this way, as if the question were, “How many others will be among the elite such as myself?” Jesus’ gives a non-answer answer: “Strive to enter through the narrow door. For many, I tell you, will seek to enter and will not be able.”

Strive to enter through the narrow door, Jesus says. I get it. I don’t like narrow doors, as you can imagine. They’re not as common as they used to be, thanks to Americans with Disabilities Act, but you find them in irplane lavatories, small closets, the old San Antonio Missions. Narrow doors prevent me from entering. At the Seminary in St. Louis, we had a carillon bell tower on campus. A friend of mine, Dien, could play it, and he invited me to watch him play this magnificent instrument. The catch was you had to go up a narrow spiral staircase to get to it. The door to get to the staircase was about the size of the closet door by our offices, and that doorway opened to an even narrower staircase. Even back in my salad days, I could not fit through that walkway.

I guess I could have gone on a strict diet regimen to lose a few pounds. Maybe that would have helped, eventually, but it wouldn’t have helped me that afternoon. Besides, it wasn’t the waist that was so much the problem. I’ve always been a big man and that was designed for someone about the size of my son. Even my shoulders didn’t fit. I tried twisting sideways, but that was terribly uncomfortable. I tried climb the stairs by side-steping, but between my feet and my knees, that wasn’t going to happen, either. Besides: I didn’t want to be the guy on the evening news “Fire department called to Seminary to rescue student from bell tower staircase.”  So, I stayed outside, out in the courtyard. I could hear him play, I could imagine the joy in his face in making music that – literally – the entire town could hear. But I could not watch Dien play the carillon because of the narrow doorway, walkway, and staircase. It was just too narrow.

“Strive to enter through the narrow door,” Jesus says. Strive, struggle, endeavor, make every effort, do your best – we like those kind of words. They’re American. Work hard, pull yourself up by the bootstraps, “git-r-dun,” “just do it.” Obviously, Jesus isn’t talking about physically entering a door. This is a spiritual door, and it sounds like we best get busy doing some spiritual weight-lifting so we can get ourselves into and through that doorway. We don’t want to miss out on the party Jesus describes. Alternately, we don’t want to be the ones left out in the dark.  

This is spiritual language, so it sounds like we have some spiritual training to do. Perhaps we should read our Bibles more, or go to church more often. Maybe we should pray harder or longer, get on a couple of different groups or committees, maybe even teach Sunday school. No…that’s not what Jesus means. Perhaps we should practice care for others, we should spend Saturdays at Christ’s Kitchen, and weekdays at VCAM and evenings at the YMCA helping with a kids’ reading program. Yes, those things are important, but that’s not what He means here. Maybe we should be better Christians, living moral lives so people can see our good deeds. Watch our mouths, don’t watch members of the opposite sex, and keep our hands to ourselves, like our parents taught us. Again, important work, but that’s not going to get us in the door.

In fact, those very things can make us stumble at the door step, at the stoop of the door. They can make us trip over ourselves, thinking we can somehow slim ourselves down enough so we can fit. Drop a couple pounds of our favorite sins here, clean up our act there, and we’ll be in good shape shortly. Anything that makes us think we can do something to make ourselves entry-worthy is, in fact, the very thing that keeps us outside. We might change our behavior, the external things that people see around us, but what about what’s inside? What about those things we keep locked up behind closed doors? In Matthew 15: 19-20, Jesus says, “19 For out of the heart come evil thoughts, murder, adultery, sexual immorality, theft, false witness, slander. 20 These are what defile a person.” We dare not stand in front of Jesus’ door, thinking we’re all sparkly clean, arguing we should be allowed in because we’ve somehow made ourselves presentable. That’s not the case at all. There are things we simply cannot fix.

Don’t hear Jesus’ word to “strive” as though He is giving you a prescription for what you must do. Rather, He is speaking of what the struggle is: repentance. Repentance is God at work in the sinner. The light of God’s word opens the doors we would rather keep closed and it shines into the nooks and crannies of our lives, our minds, and our hearts and it sees and identifies our sins. All those things we want to keep behind closed doors, locked away in the closets, God calls out into the light. The world calls it efficiency; God calls it laziness. Friends call it truth-telling; God calls it gossip. The media calls it unbiased reporting; God calls it slander. Society calls it freedom; God calls it lust. Self-help gurus call it self-worth; God calls it arrogant pride. Advertising implies you have to take care of good ol’ number one; God calls it idolatry. Shining into the darkness of our hearts, God reveals our sins for what they are and that they separate us from God and they divide us from one another.

And repentance is God exposing it for what it is. Repentance calls evil, evil; sin, sin; and leaves no room for excuses or for our half-hearted, self-righteous attempts to fix ourselves. Repentance surrenders ourselves, with our sinful thoughts, words, and actions, and lays them at the foot of Jesus.

Jesus is going to Jerusalem. There before Him is the door of the city gates. Soon after this, He will be met by welcoming crowds, but only a few days later, He will be hauled through the door of Pilate’s chambers where Jesus will be judged innocent, yet condemned to die. He will be drug back through the door, down the streets, and out the door of the gates that He once entered in triumph, but this time in shame, taken outside the gates and nailed to the cross for all to see. And, when He finally breathes His last, His body will be carried through the narrow door of the tomb where He will be laid to rest, and the door blocked by a massive stone. Jesus says, “I am the door.” Neither stone nor death stops this door from opening and on Easter, the doorway of the tomb is open so that Jesus, who is the door, stands open so all can see: Christ is risen indeed! In His death, He paid the full price for all those sins which serve to keep the door closed, that would otherwise keep us locked in the darkness of sin, death and damnation. In His resurrection, He opens the door to the Father’s mercy.  

Enter through the door! Know, believe, trust and rely that the door is Jesus (John 10:9). Strive to enter through the door. Or, repent to enter through Christ. Through Christ, you are welcomed to the feast. Through Christ, you are ushered into the presence of the eternal banquet. Through Christ, you are declared righteous. Through Christ, you will be in the presence of Abraham, and Isaac, and Jacob, and all of the prophets of old. Through Christ, you will be joined with others, from east and west, from north and south, who likewise entered through the door.

There is one aspect of striving that we know full well. We are striving, struggling, making every effort on this journey of faith in life. To us, Jesus encourages us to strive. But, how? And for what? The answer is the opposite is what we might normally think. Our world says strive to be the best and the first. Jesus instead says, strive to be last; strive to be least. Strive to be nothing. Jesus said there are last ones who will be first, and first ones who will be last. Striving to enter is because of God’s working and saving in us. God’s journey is inverse of what we would normally do. So, we strive, not to be good Christians, but to be repentant and faithful Christians. Jesus will teach us how, how to be last. He will make us, in and of ourselves, to be nothing – nothing about which to brag or boast. If there is wisdom and learning to be done in this life, it will be done in us according to His will and in His mercy. He will enable us to strive to be last. Strive to be last and let God make you first. Strive to do nothing. God has done it all. It is what He has done and continues to do with us.  “Strive to enter through the narrow door.” How Jesus delights to stand and welcome you through that narrow door. In His resurrection, He has opened the door of eternal paradise for you and for me, and says, “Welcome, you who are blessed by my Father. Enter.”

Jesus is Lord Over What Makes You Anxious: Luke 12:28-34

Grace to you and peace from God our Father and from our Lord and Savior Jesus Chris. Amen. The text is the Gospel lesson read a few moments ago, Luke 12:28 ff.

We are living in anxious times. According to the Anxiety and Depression Association of America, each year 40 million Americans are affected by anxiety.[1]  Anxiety is defined simply as extreme worry.[2] I’m not a psychologist, so please take this as a layman’s interpretation: think of a sliding scale where there’s strong interest, then concern, then worry and then anxiety. While there are many types of anxiety, basically the part of the brain that controls our responses to threats, real and perceived, short circuits and stays stuck in the wide open, full throttle position. Anxiety can be temporary, or it can be prolonged. It can be from outside of us or it can come from inside ourselves. It can be subtle and sneaky or it can be right in our face. Anxiety can do anything from making us mildly uncomfortable to being physically and mentally incapacitated, unable to function or, it causes people to make decisions and life choices they would never make under normal, healthy circumstances. And, for the record, anxiety has no boundaries – it hits both Christians and non-Christian alike.

That surprises some people. After all, as Christians, the promises of God are bestowed on us in Holy Baptism. He is our God and we are His people. The promises He has made through the pages of Scripture are ours: Psalm 121:4 – He who watches over Israel will neither slumber nor sleep; Isaiah 42:3 – a smoldering wick He will not extinguish and a bruised reed He shall not break; Matthew 11:28 – come to me all you who are weary and heavy laden and I will give you rest; 1 Peter 5:7 – cast all your anxieties on Him for He cares for you.

We know these promises of God. And when we hear them combined with Jesus’ words in this morning’s Gospel lesson, “Do not be anxious…”, we want to rejoice – there is no need for us to be anxious! The Lord has promised it. I know, believe, trust and rely that these promises of God are true.

And then we turn on the TV and we hear about another shooting. I drove through Sutherland Springs Friday and saw the new church that is built, and I remembered what happened there. We open our 401K statements and see how this economic battle with China is effecting our retirement plans. Our paycheck doesn’t seem to go as far. The car didn’t start…again. School is getting ready to start and for some this is terrifying – the prospect of having to meet new classmates, risking bullying and being made fun of literally makes them sick to their stomach. And that’s just the teachers! There will be children crying on the first day of school because they don’t know what’s going to be happening.

Medically speaking, mild anxiety can be helped with having someone to talk to, maybe a friend or a coworker, a classmate or a pastor. Moderate to severe anxiety may need professional help. There’s no shame in that. You would see a cardiologist for a irregular heartbeat; no big deal. Do the same for mental health and take care of yourself the same way. Let me help, let a friend help; if you want someone to go to a doctor with you, call me and I’ll drive.

Theologically speaking, though, the root of anxiety lies in the first commandment, “You shall have no other Gods before me.” That sounds odd, doesn’t it? That anxiety is a sin against the first commandment? The old self loves to be in control, so much so that it tells us that we can be like God. We can be in control if we want to be. We have to take life by the horns, go for the gusto, just do it, have it your way right away. Are we in good hands? Of course – their ours! We make ourselves out to be god, in charge of our own lives and all that is around us.  As long as life is running smoothly and we can make ourselves believe we’re in control, then I’m OK, you’re OK, we’re all OK.

And then something happens and life, suddenly, is hard. Life narrows down. Maybe it’s money problems, or health concerns, or a relationship destroyed, or a new school. We’re no longer in charge. The old self that’s still within us was drowned in Baptism, but he or she is a good swimmer and he or she keeps bobbing up to the surface. There it is, rapidly treading water, anxiously calling out, “Oh, yeah? How will I have enough to eat? How will I have clothes to wear? How will I have a roof over my head?”  Anxiety lies to us, telling us that should be in control of the situation. But we’re not. We’re not even close to being in control. In fact, anxiety amps it up even further and lies, saying no one is in control, that there is nothing but chaos out there. It becomes irrational, but that doesn’t matter because I’m not in control.

Into this storm, Jesus speaks to the anxious heart, “Peace…be still. Do not be anxious about your life, what you will eat or your body or what you will put on.”

Now, if you are anxious about anything, at this point your old self is screaming something like, “Pfft…yeah, Jesus. That’s easy for you to say, ‘Don’t be anxious…’ You’re God, after all…I’m just me and that doesn’t seem to be getting it done…”

Jesus full well understands. He knows what it is to have His life threatened to the point of death. He knows what it is to be hungry. He had no place to call His own home. He knows what it is to see friends turn against Him while others run and flee. So, when He directs us to see the birds of the air or the flowers of the field as models and examples, He wants you to see how God shows His love and mercy on His creation. While, yes, there are seasons of hardship for the birds and flowers, that doesn’t change the love that God has for them. And, if that is true for plants and animals, how much more certain and true it will be for us, the pinnacle of His creation.

So repent. Repent of trying to be God, as if we can gain the kingdom for ourselves. It’s not ours to earn. Instead, “It’s your Father’s pleasure to give you the Kingdom.” Christ, whose throne was the cross, and whose royal chambers was the tomb, has in His death and resurrection opened the Kingdom for you. God, in Christ, rules with grace, mercy and compassion. He cares for you now and into eternity. Cast your anxieties on Him; you can’t be God. Let Him be God. You simply be His.

Now, let me have a word for all of my fellow anxious brothers and sisters in Christ: Perhaps you are anxious about money or your health; maybe you’re anxious about your child leaving for college; maybe you’re anxious about your parents or your children; maybe you are now anxious about going to public places. Maybe you’re anxious about school starting in a couple days.

This afternoon, go home and re-read this morning’s Gospel lesson. I want you to notice two things: First, notice that nowhere does Jesus condemn the anxious heart. He doesn’t say that this makes you a bad Christian or that you are now outside God’s grace. Jesus is speaking compassionately here, to the conscience that has been twisted and turned against itself. Here, He does not condemn anyone as being faithless. Instead, He says, “You of little faith.” Yes, anxiety weakens faith but this is not the same thing as no faith. Remember: it’s not the size of your faith that counts, but that your faith – whatever size it may be – remains in Jesus. Little faith still is faith in Jesus. Second, I want you to also see the term of affection Jesus uses: little flock. He is the Good Shepherd; we are the sheep of His hands. As a shepherd cares for his sheep, so Jesus tenderly and lovingly cares for us – even the anxious ones.

I want you to know these things so that whether your are anxious now, or if anxiety strikes another time, if the devil tries to throw against you, “If you were a good Christian, you wouldn’t be anxious,” or some such other lie, I want you know the truth. Do not let satan twist your forgiven and Christ-focused conscience against you, for it, too, has been redeemed by Jesus. If you hear that voice in your head trying to tell you otherwise, make the sign of the cross and say, “I am baptized.” That sign of the cross, placed on your forehead and heart, marked you as one redeemed by Christ the crucified.

What I do know is this: Our Lord takes those moments of anxiety and He uses them to lead us to repentance. There’s a story about a preacher who prayed, “Lord, I hate lard. Lord, I hate buttermilk. And, Lord, I hate plain flour. But when those things get mixed together and baked, I do love those biscuits. So, Lord, help me realize that when life gets hard with things we don’t like and we don’t understand what you’re doing, help us wait patiently and see what it is that you’re making. After you get done with the mixing and the baking, it’ll be something even better than biscuits.”

If you’re anxious, remember: we are not in control; He is. Earlier, I said “Life is hard and life narrows down.”  I took that line from a devotion written by Rev. Arnold Kuntz. The rest of the quote is this, "Life narrows down, and crisis comes. And suddenly only one thing matters, and there, in the narrow place, stands Jesus."[3]

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[1] https://adaa.org/about-adaa/press-room/facts-statistics

[2] https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/basics/anxiety

[3] As cited here: https://www.lutheranhour.org/sermon.asp?articleid=30624