The Sovereignty of Today: Pray, Hope, and Don't Worry
- Mar 25
- 5 min read
“Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about its own things. Sufficient for the day is its own trouble.” — Matthew 6:34 (New King James Version)
In the quiet of my study in Corinth, Mississippi, these words are not merely a suggestion; they are a retaining wall. The silence in this house has a physical weight, the pressurized echo chamber of a modern sociological craze that has redefined the American family's landscape. I am the mother of an only adult child. For over a year, the bridge of our relationship has been lifted, the ropes cut, and the stone moved across the entrance. My son has established a boundary of "No Contact": no calls, no letters, no shared holidays, no gifts mailed. I know he is now a father himself. I am a grandmother in forced exile, a title held in the abstract. It is a peculiar kind of grief, one without a funeral or a grave to visit, but rather a living absence that breathes in the corners of every room, reminding me daily of the "long day" of waiting.
I am not alone in this exile. I belong to a growing, silent army of millions of parents who find themselves suddenly discarded. We are the casualties of a digital age that treats lineage like a disposable subscription service: something to be canceled the moment it becomes inconvenient or requires the hard work of reconciliation. But as a writer and an educator, I cannot simply be a victim of a trend. I have to find the plot of my own life within the wreckage. To do that, I keep two great men as companions in this room: a nineteenth-century Russian novelist and a noted twentieth-century Catholic saint. Both serve as anchors, pulling me back from the precipice of despair and returning me to the essential, protective command of Matthew 6:34.
When I look at this scripture, I am struck by the specific command: "tomorrow will worry about its own things." For a mother of an only child, tomorrow's things are a minefield of "what ifs" and "never agains"—the birthdays I won't attend, the graduations I might not see, the silent growth of a grandson I have never held. If I allow my mind to wander into those things, I am abandoning the post God has given me today, trespassing into a future that does not yet exist, and for which I have been given no spiritual provision. The scripture acts as a spiritual governor, telling me that the ache of a silent phone is sufficient trouble for this Tuesday. By naming it "trouble," the Word validates my pain without allowing it to become my master — I do not have the grace to handle next year's silence today; I only have the grace for this hour. This is the true meaning of spiritual endurance—not the conquest of the future, but the faithful occupation of the present moment.
In my decades as an educator, I have been deeply influenced by Fyodor Dostoevsky’s exploration of the human moral compass. In his masterworks, he warned of the internal erasure of truth that occurs through the habit of lying—that when a man lies to himself, he eventually cannot distinguish the truth within him or around him. I have realized that worry is the ultimate lie. The sociological craze tells my son he is an island, that he can find his truth by deleting the woman who gave him life. That is his choice to navigate. But for me, the danger lies in what Dostoevsky might call the "cringe" of the soul—the spiritual shrinking that happens when we believe our circumstances are bigger than our Creator. This cringe is the soul contracting because it has abandoned the light of truth.
If I spend my hours worrying, I am participating in a false narrative—pretending I can author a heart that isn't mine, or that God has forgotten the path to my door. To be truthful, in the Dostoevskian sense, is to admit the ache without letting it become a lie of despair. My moral compass remains fixed on this Truth: I am a mother, he is my son, and the bond of blood is a reality that no "no contact" decree can truly erase. By rejecting the lie of worry, I maintain the integrity of my own soul and refuse to let isolation become an echo chamber of my own fears. This clarity is essential to surviving the "long day" — the refusal to allow the liar's cringe to take up residence in my heart, keeping the internal truth bright even when the external world is dim.
Then, there is St. Padre Pio. His spiritual prescription is famously blunt: "Pray, hope, and don't worry. Worrying is useless. God is merciful and will hear your prayer." For a mother of an only child, being told not to worry can feel like a command to stop breathing—as if worry were a form of vigilance or a shadow of love. But Pio was a gritty realist who understood the mechanics of the spirit. Worry is useless labor; it is a cognitive wheel spinning in the mud that produces no heat and no light. It does not reach my son's house; it does not touch my grandson's cradle; it does not change the heart of the "no contact" movement. It only serves to burn out the lamp I am supposed to keep lit for the rest of the world.
Padre Pio moves me from the ache to the action. He gives me the marching orders for a grandmother in exile. I must Pray—the only form of contact left that can bypass any boundary. I must Hope—the ultimate act of defiance against a culture that preaches the disposability of people. And I must live. By refusing to worry, I am protecting the Prodigal narrative, leaving the room of his life open for God to move in while I stay in the room of my own sufficient day. I am trusting that the same God who watched over the son in the far country is watching over mine. Hope, in this context, is not a wishful feeling but a disciplined stance.
Millions of us are searching for the right words, the right therapy, or the right leverage to break the silence. But the wisdom of God’s Holy Word and the examples of these two men suggest that the most profound thing I can do is simply be where I am. I live my life in Corinth. I teach my lessons. I write my books. I hold the fact of my son’s fatherhood in a prayer rather than a panic, and I leave the "tomorrow" of his return to the only Author who can walk through the locked doors of an echo chamber.
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