Somewhere in a small dark cabin buried deep in the intestines of Prostetnic Vogon Jeltz's flagship, a small match flared nervously. The owner of the match was not a Vogon, but he knew all about them and was right to be nervous. His name was Ford Prefect.*
* Ford Prefect's original name is only pronounceable in an obscure Betelgeusian dialect, now virtually extinct since the Great Collapsing Hrung Disaster of Gal./Sid./Year 03758 which wiped out all the old Praxibetel communities on Betelgeuse Seven. Ford's father was the only man on the entire planet to survive the Great Collapsing Hrung Disaster, by an extraordinary coincidence that he was never able to satisfactorily explain. The whole episode is shrouded in deep mystery: in fact no one ever knew what a Hrung was nor why it had chosen to collapse on Betelgeuse Seven particularly. Ford's father, magnanimously waving aside the clouds of suspicion that had inevitably settled around him, came to live on Betelgeuse Five, where he bot fathered and uncled Ford; in memory of his now dead race he christened him in the ancient Praxibetel tongue.
Because Ford never learned to say his original name, his father eventually died of shame, which is still a terminal disease in some parts of the Galaxy. The other kids at school nicknamed him Ix, which in the language of Betelgeuse Five translates as "boy who is not able satisfactorily to explain what a Hrung is, nor why it should choose to collapse on Betelgeuse Seven."
That's a pretty depressing little history of a character in a novel that's supposed to be a sci-fi farce/comedy. Granted, the details have a certain amount of the ridiculous in them, especially the translation of his Betelgeuse Five name. It would sort of be like me being christened with a name that means "boy who will grow up into a man who worries too much about work and money and family and the color of the mole on his leg."
Anyone who has read this blog for any length of time knows my penchant for worry. It's one of my hobbies, along with blogging, writing poetry, and listening to Christmas music at inappropriate times of the year. (In my defense, there really is no time of the year when Christmas music is inappropriate. It's the people around me that think Christmas music doesn't belong in May or June or July or August.) Worry, on the other hand, is never really out-of-season.
Now, as a practicing Christian, I know that worry (and its source--fear) really is the enemy of faith. There's that whole thing about trusting that God will give us everything that we need. I mean, Jesus says at one point in the Bible, "Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink; or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothes? Look at the birds of the air: They do not sow or reap or gather into bard--and yet your Heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they? Who of you by worrying can add a single hour to his life?"
Yet, I indulge in worry every day. Today's main worry: money. Of course, that is one of my constant worries. As often happens, the day that my paycheck arrives (which was yesterday), it was already gone for the week. And there are still bills to pay. Groceries to buy. Gas to put in the car so my wife and I can get to work. Don't know how all that's going to happen, but I have to put it all in God's hands. That's all I can do.
I think, maybe, in the 21st century, it's a little more difficult to do than when the disciples were walking around with Jesus Christ. In those days, it wasn't unusual to see lepers getting cured and dead people climbing out of their tombs. If a stranger knocked on your door at night, he might be your cousin Levi or he might be an angel travelling through Galilee on the way to Jerusalem to dispense some divine justice. Signs of God's presence and generosity were a little easier to spot.
These days, you have to look a little harder, understand a little more deeply, to see signs of God's providence and generosity. I don't expect, in the next day or so, for some distant relative whom I've never met to die and leave me a multi-million dollar inheritance. Won't happen. What I have to do is take leaps of faith. This week, my leap of faith is that we will somehow make it to the next paycheck, which comes at the end of next week.
Faith and trust--those aren't top on my list of hobbies right now. Worry still holds the top spot.
Saint Marty is a work in progress, as always.
No comments:
Post a Comment