The refrigerated air hits my face as I enter his office.  As I step into the waiting room, a slender, smooth-skinned woman--young and green-eyed greets me.  Looking at her tailored clothing and perfectly coiffed hair, I suddenly feel old and somewhat disheveled, having driven to the appointment in the heat of the Carolina day, the walk from my car to the office causing me to perspire, my suit jacket wrinkled after a day at work.  The lovely girl tells me with flawless courtesy, "Wes will be right with you." As I wait to speak with my financial consultant I stare down at the plush Oriental rug beneath my shoes--the swirls of sage, burgandy, cream and black so pretty--no crumbs or threads.  I think of my own rug at home--always a few stray pieces of grass embedded in the carpet strands--and yes, surely crumbs.

Wes interrupts my thoughts.  "Come on back.  I've got your portfolio ready."  Wes looks a lot like his assistant in a manly way.  He is tanned, but not too tanned.  His white shirt is crisp, trousers pressed, the crease impeccable.  When he hands me a sheaf of papers, I note that his fingernails are slighty bitten--his one "chink" perhaps.   We go over the paperwork.  He smiles and talks to me about how the stocks are doing and makes some recommendations.  Mostly I understand, however,  investing is not my forte. I'm thankful for Wes and his expertise.  I'm just starting to kind of relax.  I'm not sweating anymore, thank God.  The air conditioning is so cold, I'm almost chilly.  But then Wes gently advises that I save even more.  And now that you're sixty, it's time to be thinking about long-term care insurance.  Even though it's plenty cool in the office, I begin to sweat again, anxiety blooming under my arms.  I can feel my chest turning red, beads of perspiration beginning to form droplets on my upper lip.  I'm thinking, "Oh my God, how can I ever begin to save that much every month and then think of adding that insurance policy into my monthly budget?"  The figures just seem impossible.  I so want out of the meeting.  Wes is kind.  I can't imagine that he doesn't notice that I'm sweating so much.  I dread shaking his hand.  My palms are wet.  So I hold the printout of the reports he's given me in one hand and fiddle with my purse with the other so I won't have to do the handshake.  I make it out in one piece and head for my car. There are crumbs on the carpet there too.  As I drive home I observe a lean, tanned jogger.  She has an enviable beach body. Even her dog is sleek and shiny.  Wow, they make such a stunning duo.  And I think of myself.  I am so, so far away from a beach body.

When I get home I open my email box.  There is a wonderful note from a friend.  "I've been thinking about you," she writes.  She tells me of her own life, a collage of bits and pieces that are good and not so good.  She says, "We all have our own versions of 'hard.'" She continues, "Too often I'm comparing myself with others, and this is not a good idea."  No it is not.  Her words act as a jolt to my mind hemorrhaging with distorted thoughts.  Maybe I can't save as much as Wes recommends, but I can increase my saving.  It's not "all or nothing."  Surely I will never have the physique of the muscled jogger, but I can keep working out--being more consistent.  I can vaccuum my car. Yes. We all have our own version of hard.  My friend is right.  We will lose the comparison game every time.

Then I open the Word, the Lord so good to speak--to remind me that my life is not about constantly doing more, achieving more, but rather about trusting His supply, His wisdom, His abundant grace, His rest.  I call out to God, the God who holds me together. God delivers generous love; He makes good on His word.  Now I stroll at leisure with God in the sunlit fields of life. (From Psalms 56 and 57, The Message)