No matter how old I get, I still find myself worrying about things completely beyond my control. I know it is futile—and Scripture reminds me not to carry that load—yet a few small things still manage to press that old stress button.
The ironic thing about my stress button is that it rarely gets pushed by major crises. Large challenges I can handle; it is the little, buzzing mosquitoes of daily stress that send me searching for the Pepto or Mylanta.
When those small worries begin to swarm, writing often helps clear the fog—just as it is doing right now—and a slow walk through the park helps lower my pulse. Still, I often ask myself: how do we stop from turning a molehill into a mountain? My imagination lives in a storyteller’s body, consistently scripting scenarios far worse than anything that ever comes to pass. How do I slow those creative juices before they write a tragedy before the first chapter is even begun?
Perhaps the antidote to an overactive imagination is simply returning to the present. When I catch my mind building mountains out of dust, I have to pause, breathe, and yield those imaginary troubles back to the God who holds tomorrow. After all, most of the storms we prepare for exist only in our minds—the present moment is usually far gentler than we feared.
Learning to quiet those little mosquitoes is a daily discipline. It starts with recognizing that a molehill is just a mound of dirt, not a mountain, and that peace isn’t found in controlling the outcome, but in letting go. So I’ll take another slow step, draw a deep breath, and leave that unwritten future right where it belongs—tucked away in the closet, out of sight and out of mind.
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