Two words that trip me up every day. I'm not talking about the good what ifs. I'm talking about the other kind. The kind that make me miss out on life. The kind that make me wonder who I've turned into.
What if we get a hurricane? What if I get sick? What if my car breaks down and I can't find help?
My what ifs quite often swallow me whole. Swollow my life. Swallow me.
It never used to be this way. I have certainly done my share of adventurous things. Ridden in a horse and buggy in Central Park at midnight with an ex-con. Flown to Paris and learned how to maneuver the subways and survive. Driven all night for twelve hours half-asleep.
And those were the safe things.
But somewhere along the way, as I aged, I started counting how many years I had left to live. I started hanging on to them tightly as though I could really control my number of days. And I found myself wanting them to last--safely.
Part of it came from reading too many newspapers, listening to too much news, seeing my daughter move to the other side of the country where I couldn't take care of her anymore, having a grandson born who I couldn't watch grow up, and living in a city where crime is growing as fast as my weeds.
The ladies at my encouragement group on Saturday noticed how often I used my what ifs. They decided to enlist their help even if it meant blindfolding me and making me bungi jump off a bridge.
So today I'm declaring an end to my what ifs.
Because if not, what if I never really lived the life God intended me?
That would be the worst what if of all.