The safety presentation was finished and the captain had turned on the “fasten seatbelts” sign. The plane sat ready on the runway.

As the rush of acceleration was felt, a man jumped to his feet and began flapping his arms wildly. People stared and the flight attendant hurried to ask him to sit down. His face was red and beads of perspiration had popped out on his forehead.

No matter how the attendant tried to reason with him, he kept insisting, his words coming out in great gasps and puffs, “I’ve got to help get this plane get off the ground! I’ve got to do my part!”

A lot of things have been going on in our home recently: things that give me plenty to worry about. Financial, health and communication issues in our family, coupled with feelings of being spread too thin can really pump up anxiety levels. I feel like I have to DO SOMETHING to help make things better, but most of the time, that’s not even possible.

I used to brush it off and say, “I’m a woman. Women worry. It’s what we do.” It may very well be a genetic tendency, but it’s also unhealthy and unproductive. It’s a habit that I will have to break if I expect to ever have any peace in life.

I know that God has everything under control, and none of the things that blow my mind even take Him by surprise. He is the Pilot. He is in charge of what goes on in my life’s “flight.”

All of my worry accomplishes nothing, but rather steals my peace. I know that these things that make me feel panicky are not in my power to fix, yet I seem almost addicted to the worry. It gives me a thin, superficial sense of contributing to the solution.

As ridiculous as the scenario above sounds, I am in the habit of doing exactly what that man did. I keep flapping my arms, getting emotionally sweaty and exhausted, trying to “help” with something completely out of my control.

I am slowly learning, however, to hear that still, small voice in my heart that tells me, “Amy, stop flapping. You can trust this to me.”

As ridiculous as the scenario above sounds, I am in the habit of doing exactly what that man did. I keep flapping my arms, getting emotionally sweaty and exhausted, trying to “help” with something completely out of my control.

I am slowly learning, however, to hear that still, small voice in my heart that tells me, “Amy, stop flapping. You can trust this to me.”