Hello, friends!
Happy Ahhhhhhhhctober! It’s full of pumpkins and spice and everything nice! It’s the gateway to the holidays.
Today I wanted to talk to you about worrying. And Myrtle Lunemann. Way back in 1985, Miss Myrtle Lunemann said something to me that stuck like Velcro.
Let’s go back to 1985, shall we? A postage stamp cost a mere 22 cents. The “New Coke” was introduced (oops). As was Nintendo. Michael Jordan was named “Rookie of the Year.” A movie called “Back to the Future” was released. “Live Aid” concerts were happening around the world.
In 1985, Kevin and I had been married for three years and were living in suburban Minneapolis. I was working as a music therapist at a rather posh nursing home called North Ridge Care Center. Now I know “posh” and “nursing home” don’t usually appear together in the same sentence, but this place looked more like a nice hotel than your average nursing home. It was a large facility with all levels of care, from those needing the most skilled care to apartments for independent living. A friend of mine, Cheryl, had started the music therapy program there and after she got the music ball rolling, a second position was created, and I filled it. Cheryl and I had music performance groups, music appreciation groups, music & movement groups and sing-alongs seven days a week!
One of the groups we had was a lady’s choir in the independent apartments. We did not discriminate against men. It’s just that only ladies showed up. Cheryl and I took turns directing these delightful ladies in song. While Cheryl directed, I played the piano and vice versa. In between songs, we enjoyed chatting with the ladies and picking their brains on various topics. They were a treasure trove of advice and witticisms. For example: How to make the best Swedish meatball. (Some of the wilder Swedes add allspice along with the nutmeg. It was a bit controversial, though, and not everyone admitted to such impertinent behavior. Turns out my mom was one of the wild ones!) This might not be a topic of conversation in other states, but there was a lot of Swedish-meatball-murmuring in Minnesota, along with Norwegian-lefse-lingo.
There just so happened to be another senior apartment complex up the street that had their very own choir as well. Cheryl had the bright idea of putting our two choirs together into one lovely bunch of coconuts and putting on a concert! How fun would that be? We were invited to go to the other building as the “guests” of that place. Our two choirs practiced several agreed-upon songs and set a date for our big performance. Here’s the pickle: Something came up for Cheryl and she couldn’t participate, so I was the sole director for our choir. And the director from the other facility contacted me to say, since we were the guests, she’d defer to me as the “guest conductor” and “allow” me to be in charge of the whole kit and caboodle.
Here’s the thing. I don’t like being in charge of kits and/or caboodles.
I love being #2. The “helper.” The one who says, “Just let me know what I can do to help.” Be the one in charge?? Um, no thanks. That would be Cheryl, and since she can’t be here, I’ll just be in the corner sucking my thumb, k? Except you can’t really do that when you’re a grown-up and being paid to do something.
Enter Myrtle Lunemann.
So, one day after our choir practice, I was stacking up the music and getting ready to head out when sweet Myrtle walked by. I must have looked a bit frantic and she asked if everything was ok. She asked at just the right moment for me to explode with a litany of “what ifs.” She calmly listened to me and then answered in her gentle voice, “No sense worrying. It never added an hour onto anyone’s life.”
Skiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiidddd!! The moment she said that it was like an inflatable hammer hit me on the head. (As in, it got my attention but didn’t hurt.) In all my frenetic planning and worrying that I was going to do something wrong, it suddenly made sense to me that getting all worked up about it was so not helpful.
Here’s the funny thing. I thought that was just something wise old Myrtle came up with to calm my nerves that day. Several years later, either in a Bible study or at church, I heard this: “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 store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they? Can any one of you by worrying add a single hour to your life?” (Matthew 6:25-27)
Wait a minute, how did the Bible know what Myrtle Lunemann told me? Oh, now I get it!!
Wise old Myrtle was quoting the Bible to me that day and no wonder it impacted me so—those were the very words of Jesus Himself! It was more than just a few pearls of wisdom from a sweet old lady; it was actual peace-giving teaching from Jesus. Via the lips of Myrtle Lunemann.
I wish I could say that since that day in 1985 I haven’t worried again. Worrying runs in my genes and I hate to admit that I’m pretty good at it. But as often as I can, I like to picture Myrtle telling me not to be anxious. I smile every time.
I hope if you’re prone to worry, you’ll heed the wise words of Jesus/Myrtle and realize the uselessness of it. If you want to look them up, you’ll find them in Matthew 6:27 and then again in Luke 12:25.
I’m looking forward to seeing Myrtle someday in heaven. I’ll tell her how much her simple but profound words have meant to me all these years. I hope they might help you, too.
Deeeeeeeeeeep breaths, everyone!
Love, Patti