Watchful vs. Anxious

What's the difference, anyway?

I recently watched a documentary about wolves living in a remote Arctic region. A photographer had hidden cameras across their island, hoping to capture footage of the beautiful creatures. Despite the photographer’s careful camouflage, the wolves quickly noticed his cameras, and their reactions were fascinating. One wolf in the pack—an adolescent female, who spends her days hunting alongside her father—was curious about the camera, playfully sniffing and nudging the device. She quickly concluded it was neither food nor threat, gave one playful swat, and then abandoned it, returning to the quest for food.

The next wolf to notice the camera was also a female, but her response was completely different. As soon as she realized something new was in her environment, she lowered her head and put her tail between her legs. She remained motionless for some time, apparently torn between an attempt to seem invisible and a desire to flee from the foreign object.

This response could be explained in part by temperament, but there was a more significant difference between the two female wolves: the second wolf was the mother of the pack, and she had encountered the camera while checking the perimeter of her den. Inside, two tiny pups waited for her return.

There’s a biological value in the anxiety mothers feel, whether they are caring for wolf cubs or human babes. Being responsible for a tiny life requires that a mother anticipate and prevent the thousand possible mishaps of infancy.

Hospitality can trigger a similar anxiety (and there’s probably a whole post I need to write about motherhood as an archetype for all hospitality). When we welcome others into our homes and churches, we invite them to bring their needs and vulnerabilities with them. And we are, whether for a short span or a lifetime, pledging to bear those burdens with them.

The honest teacher of Ecclesiastes warns us that “in much wisdom is much vexation, and he who increases knowledge increases sorrow” (1:8). Parent and host alike know this vexation. Not only do we know the immediate needs of our children and guests, we can imagine what could happen to them: the child could pull that boiling pot off the stove and burn herself; the friend at the table might leave her marriage once and for all; the happy family you’ve welcomed to the garden could be on the cusp of medical calamity. Some of these dangers we can guard against (put that pot on the back burner!). In the face of others, we feel powerless.

Understanding the nature of our power is key to discerning the difference between anxiety and what the Bible calls “watchfulness.” We are told throughout Scripture, “do not be anxious about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God” (Philippians 4:6). I love this verse, but I can also admit that in the midst of spinning anxious thoughts, obeying the command not to be anxious can feel somewhat futile.

Ceasing anxiety only works if I have something else to do - not merely a distraction from worry, but something more powerful. That something is watchfulness. 1 Peter 5:8 tells us “Be sober-minded; be watchful. Your adversary the devil prowls around like a roaring lion, seeking someone to devour.” Being devoured by the devil is, frankly, much worse than most of the things I normally worry about, and yet in the verse just before this, Peter writes, “Cast all your anxiety on Him, because He cares for you” (5:7).

So: we are to be watchful without being anxious. What does this look like in practice?

It means prayer, first of all. Prayer is capable of untangling both the bodily and the mental knots of anxiety. When my breath and muscles are taut and fearful, a slow, repetitive prayer like the “Jesus Prayer” (Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on me, a sinner) can be helpful. Even better is singing my prayers, allowing old lyrics and well-worn melodies regulate my breathing and pull my mind into the correct order of lyrics and away from troubling thoughts. All this before we reckon with the miracle itself: that we can truly “cast our cares”—including responsibility for all outcomes—on God.

Watchfulness also requires a sober assessment of our resources, and the release of what we cannot faithfully steward. There are many things beyond our control, but for the things that we are accountable for, we will attend to them and protect them better to the extent we’re able to focus. I have learned, for example, that when I am in a hurry to leave the house with my three young children, I often wonder halfway through my drive if I’ve left the stove on or if I remembered to shut the back door. These nagging questions can buzz in my ear all day, diminishing my ability to be present to the rest of my day. And so I have made a habit of buckling the kids into the car, and then making a slow walk-thru of the house: switching off lights, double-checking the stove, listening to the heavy thud of the door. If haste opens the door to anxious thoughts, then I would rather be late than in a hurry.

More profoundly, this also means that I must limit the ways in which I practice hospitality. Currently, most of my energy and attention for welcome is occupied at church, where I am working alongside my husband in a farm-based ministry to teens from refugee and immigrant families. I’m not able to sustain very much in-home hospitality right now, because so much of my energy is needed at church.

This distinction between watchfulness and anxiety is a new one for me, and I’m still exploring as much as I’m exhorting. But as I try to imagine what a watchful, fruitful life looks like, I remember Nehemiah rebuilding the walls of Zion with a trowel in one hand and sword in another (Nehemiah 4:17-18). I think about the wise virgins of Matthew 25, able to sleep as they wait for the bridegroom because they know they have stewarded their lamp oil. And of course I remember the psalm I have prayed for my household since the early days of my marriage:

Unless the Lord watches over the city,
the watchman stays awake in vain.
It is in vain that you rise up early
and go late to rest,
eating the bread of anxious toil;
for he gives to his beloved sleep.

(Psalm 127:1-2)