Lord, Quiet Every Anxious Thought.

My garden looks like we have a dog.

We don't. We have Theodore, who is four, and who cannot walk past a stick without claiming it. Every walk, every trip to preschool, home he comes with another one or five. The garden is full of them.

Last week, he found a big one. Properly big. He was delighted. And then, in the way four-year-olds do, he tried to snap it. The thing is, he wasn't expecting it to snap, and when it did the devastation was immediate. He was distraught.

He had three identical sticks in the buggy. He didn't care.

A lot of things in my life are like that stick. Two opposing forces, pulling opposite ways, until something has to give.

I think that's what stress actually is. Not one heavy thing pressing down on you. But two desires pulling in opposite directions, neither one winning, neither one resolving.

For me it's wanting to be fully present with my kids. Get down on the floor, be in the moment, not be somewhere else in my head. But also wanting to build my business, to provide for my family, do something that matters, not waste the hours I have.

Another one is wanting kids but also wanting a tidy and clean house - two completely opposite desires that are always in conflict.

The result is stress - just like that stick that, with enough time and force, eventually breaks.

Thankfully, I am nowhere near snapping, but the issue for me is the slow, silent buildup of all these unresolved desires.

The lists of things in the back of my mind I need to do around the house, emails I need to respond to, and friends I want to catch up with are all sitting there, pulling at me and my attention.

That's anxiety.

I don't have a tidy answer for how to resolve the tension. I still want to be present with my kids. I still want to build something.

Those desires aren't going away.

But "Lord, quiet every anxious thought" has become a regular prayer for me. Not because I expect the conflict to disappear, but because I can't keep holding both ends and expect not to snap.

So I hand it over. Imperfectly. Repeatedly. And somehow, that's enough.