deb roush

Last night, at the week-long educaiton communications industry conference where I’m nestled in Nashville to study the trade secrets of all things public relations, I was blessed. Yes, I know the Marriott Renaissance Convention Center does not sound like a trip to the Holy Land, but for someone with a severe anxiety disorder who can worry incessantly about almost everything — doing the right thing, her family, working hard enough, etc. — it was.

Because I earned worry dolls! 

My team is here partly to claim beautiful awards earned for hard work in branding and other achievements from a national organization that judges the best of the best. But frankly, I’m convinced my new worry dolls might be better than any plaque I could receive.

See, the speaker in one of the seminars I attended rewarded participants for asking a question, and, for perhaps the first time ever, I received a prize for opening my big mouth. I don’t remember my question. I do recall the speaker, a funny, articulate, intelligent communications professional now living in Guatemala, tossing me a little box as a “gift.”

And a gift it was. The bright yellow box held very tiny, handmade, worry dolls, and, to be honest, if I don’t learn one darn thing at this conference, the trip will have been worth it just to be rewarded with these little guys. Here’s what the tiny piece of paper in the wee box reads: GUATEMALA WORRY DOLL — There is a legend amongst the Highland Indian villages of Guatemala. “If you have a problem, then share it with a  worry doll. Before going to bed, tell one worry to each doll, then place them beneath your pillow, whilst you sleep, the dolls will take your worries away.”

That’s not how the speaker and my gift-giver explained it, and I’m going with her version. She said that all you have to do is put the box on your nightstand and pop it open. The dolls will sense your worries and tackle them overnight. Done.

Here’s why I think her explanation works just fine. Not only because there are only six little guys in the box, and I typically have many more worries than that, but also because I am a Christian. I believe in Jesus Christ, and that He answers my prayers. But last night, alone in my hotel room, I felt inordinately overwhelmed. So instead of praying silently like I am typically prone to do, I prayed out loud, just for fun so the dolls could hear. I prayed for Jesus to watch over my daughter, Rene, working insanely hard this week at mission camp in hot and humid Northern Arkansas (and using a CIRCULAR SAW to help build a wheelchair ramp for a paralyzed woman in need), and for my husband, Terry, who was undertaking a giant job repurposing our deck while tackling other home improvement projects and Kyle, my overachieving son who is studying at college in Texas for the GRE while working on multiple research projects and doesn’t have time to breathe. 

This morning, I woke up feeling refreshed, and didn’t jump for my wireless phone for any word of possible tragedy from my home team like I might be predisposed to do. I believe Jesus heard me talking to this posse of six. My new gift prompted prayer, and I spoke to them. But He got the message — loud, actually really loud — and clear. Furthermore, I’ll even say I believe He was the one who ensured I got tossed the pretty, handmade, hopeful dolls crafted by loving people who want to diminish worries in the first place. Because I needed them. They helped me to pray outwardly. Those prayers brought me peace. My peace led to sleep. Content, I rested well and awoke to a hopeful, new day.

And Jesus, who must have an extraordinary sense of humor to deal with culprits like me, probably got a good laugh thinking I was not only talking to Him, but hoping six tiny guys in a box just might be present for an assist. I’m going on record saying He deserved the laugh, and I deserved the sleep. Win-win.

Guatemalans may credit worry dolls, and I’m going to give them a shout-out, too. However, my real thanks goes to Jesus, who has watched over me on this road trip, who continues to bless my family and who is keeping my panic disorder and worry at an arm’s length, for now. 

The six are going home with me and will find a special place on my nightstand. I mean, it can’t hurt. And I earned them, after all.