It creeps up somewhere between 2 and 3 a.m.

Maybe some people are more prone to it.

I’ve always been a worrier – and never worse than when my son’s abuse of alcohol and drugs overwhelmed his high school years.

At first, I worried over what was wrong with him.  Why was he so sullen?  Then I worried over how I could help him. Early on, what would others think about our family or about me – a mother who couldn’t control her child’s drug use.

Years later, when Jacob and I both found recovery – both of us in 12-step programs – I worried over what might come next.  Would he stay in recovery?  Would I?

Now, many years later, worry snags fresh subjects.

A grandson is walking through the gauntlet of his teenage years.

A health issue has grabbed a loved one and won’t let go.

An election portends untenable change.

And our six-year-old Greyhound flies up the stairs like the athlete she was born to be.  But what about the day she can’t?

Unending, maybe silly, nagging worries that arise pre-dawn from nowhere and settle in, unwanted.

Recently, Jacob mentioned an argument he had with a friend.  He ended the conversation with a loving rejoinder:” Mom, don’t worry.  It’s nothing for you to worry about.”

So, of course, did telling me not to worry mean I should?

It’s almost humorous.

At meetings in recovery, we open and close with the Serenity Prayer.

We repeat the admonition to take it one day at a time.

Both help.

Then there’s this clever suggestion…

Try replacing “worry” with “wonder.”

I wonder – will that work?