Cade still wants to marry me.  He’s five now.  If anyone objects, he starts crying, so I just say, “We’ll talk about it when you’re old enough.” 

“But when will I be old enough to get married?” he asked in Marshall’s the other day.

I said, “When you’re old enough to get a job, you can buy a wedding ring.  Then, I guess you can get married!”  I thought this would put his mind to ease, but it produced the opposite effect. 

As his anguish reached the tipping point, he wailed, “I’ll never be able to get married because, I don’t know how to get a job!  How can I get a job?  I don’t know what to do!” 

Several grandma-type ladies happened to be in line just before and behind us, and all looked with sweet compassion on my grieving son.  I could tell they wanted to pat his back with me and say, “It’s Ok, buddy.  No need to worry about that yet.”

Cade’s twenty-year premature worries are comical to me.  But am I being just as ridiculous when I worry about our shrinking retirement funds?  God says, “Don’t worry about tomorrow…”