I am cursed with a runaway mind. Some call me a worry-wart. Others brand me as overly anxious. I'm constantly wondering "What if?" Maybe I inherited the tendency from my mother. More than likely, though, I did it to myself. Maybe it doesn't matter where I got the tendency.
One Saturday night I found myself sitting in tears behind the couch in our den. Sunday morning sermons were fast approaching, and I was in no shape to preach. Something was wrong. My emotions were frayed. I had four ulcers. I had high blood pressure. I had to cry out for help.
The first call I made was to the head of our church's counseling center.
"I've been waiting for this," he said. "I've already arranged for you to see a counselor who specializes in executive-level stress."
During our fourth session, my new counselor mentioned my tendency to worry. He predicted that, unless I got help, my out-of-control mind could one day destroy my ministry. Ministerial stress is bad enough, he said, without adding ...1