Don't Pet the Sweaty Stuff. . .

Wait.  I think it's don't sweat the petty stuff; or don't sweat the small stuff; or just take it easy; or breathe. . .

In the last six months or so, I've gotten really good at not petting the sweaty stuff, er, not sweating the petty stuff.  Yet, when the big stuff hits, it seems that I fall back on my old ways. . .or, when the big stuff hits, it seems that the little stuff occurs more frequently.  Is it because the big stuff causes me to not pay attention to the other things, and so the little stuff, feeling rather ignored, starts to act up?  Or is it because the big stuff hitting agitates the portion of my brain that has been focused on not petting the sweaty stuff, er, sweating the petty stuff.

Not sure.

No one ever likes to hear a story about a seemingly healthy woman with a beautiful child talking with her mother one minute, and then completely gone from the world in the next minute until medics work on her heart and get her back into the game, only to rush her to an intensive care unit where she fights for her life while her parents and young son await and pray for a full recovery.  I know I don't like to hear these stories, especially when the seemingly healthy woman with a beautiful child happens to be a friend of mine.

This is not petty stuff, kids.  It's that crappy, shocking, disappointing event that spins the greater known beliefs into a vortex of doubt, and spits out the old fears and anxieties, until your head spins and when the pump to the pool goes again, or you scorch a three gallon pot of sauce beyond recovery, or you are accused of committing a crime against your ex, or you toss and turn without sleep, or you stub your freaking toe, you find yourself looking into the mirror and seeing the eyes of an old nemesis that you thought you had long ago bid farewell.

And the big stuff should be petted or sweated or whatever, while the little stuff should be easily swept away.  Yet, for me at least, it doesn't seem to work that way.  It seems that I give all the power for resolving the big stuff over to God, while I take the little stuff and make it my own personal needling stick - - - where it pokes my side over and over again, or taps me on the shoulder incessantly, until I scream "For the love of God, leave me alone!"  And it giggles, and keeps poking. . . when I am awake, when I am sleeping, and when I am geared up to enjoy time with my children.

Prayers help with the big stuff.  Is it safe to assume that prayer will help with the little stuff too?

I believe that it does.

So I will.

And I will discontinue petting the sweaty stuff, er, sweating the petty stuff.