Now I finally come to the meat of my plan: Chapter 10, "Avoidance of over-eagerness and anxiety." Anxiety, that is, about how I spend my time.
The combination of "eagerness" and "anxiety" in the same chapter may seem strange. Usually, "eagerness" to do one's work is counted a virtue, or at least a stroke of luck in that what you want to do, you're ready and willing to do as soon as they let you at it. But St. Francis explains that eagerness causes trouble, and on reflection I know exactly what he's talking about. Here we go:
It is one thing to manage our affairs with care, another to do so with worry, over-eagerness and anxiety. The angels take care of our salvation with diligence yet without any worry, anxiety or over-eagerness, for care and diligence accord with their charity while worry, anxiety and over-eagerness would not accord with their happiness; since care and diligence may be accompanied by peace and tranquillity but not worry, anxiety and even less over-eagerness. Carry out all your duties, Philothea, with care and diligence, for this is God's will, but as far as possible avoid being worried or anxious about them; never undertake them anxiously or eagerly.
So St. Francis draws a distinction between care and diligence on the one hand, and anxiety, worry, and eagerness on the other. If I find I can't perform my duties with "peace and tranquillity," I might have fallen into the error of anxiety, worry, and over-eagerness (which I might otherwise mistake for care and diligence).
What's wrong with eagerness? Why can't I be eager and diligent, for instance?
All eagerness disturbs our judgement, and hinders us from doing well the work we are so eager to do…
Rivers which flow gently through the plains bear large ships and rich merchandise; rain which falls softly on the fields brings forth grass and corn; but rushing torrents are useless for shipping, and overflow their banks and ruin the land nearby, as violent rains lay waste the fields and meadows.
Work done with impetuosity and precipitation is never done well; we must make haste slowly; as the proverb says, Ever the hasty stumble; hasty work is never good work…. Those who torment themselves with eagerness and anxiety do little and that badly.
Now this is something that rings quite true to me. I know perfectly well how to plan a project or solve a problem carefully and systematically. So I have no excuse of ignorance or lack of skill when I rush out to buy the thing I think I need without checking for something that might cost less and work better, or dive into some home improvement project without considering its effect on the rest of the family.
Eagerness to "just get started" is probably a major reason why I always got such poor results in college chemistry labs, and why my forays into experimental research all fizzled!
My eagerness also blinds me to the work I ought to do but about which I feel no eagerness. It's a perfect example of being ruled by my feelings instead of by my rational thought and knowledge. (I am finding myself quite eager to work on the project of writing about St. Francis's Introduction to the Devout Life, and a bit less eager to start following its advice!)
So we have this bit of advice from St. Francis, then. Paraphrased: Work diligently, not eagerly; have care, not anxiety. Perhaps we should be suspicious of any feelings of eagerness-to-get-started about any sort of work; eagerness ought to be a warning that we should stop and carefully consider whether the work we are so eager to do is really where we ought to start.
Anxiety is also a warning sign. I get anxious especially when I'm late for something or other, and I find that the anxiety always appears too late for me to do anything to make a difference: when I am driving stuck in traffic, or when I've left it too long before starting to get the children dressed to go out. Anxiety makes me want to do something (drive too fast, yell at the kids to hurry) even though I know perfectly well that the die is already cast and I will not be able to fix the problem I've created for myself. So if I feel anxiety pushing me to do something, I ought to be suspicious of that urge too.
Here's more from St. Francis:
Flies trouble us by their numbers, not their strength; in the same way, little things trouble us more than great by their very number. Accept all the duties that come your way peacefully, taking them in order, one by one; if you try to do them all at once they will weigh you down and disturb you so much that you will probably be unable to do anything.
I can sum that up pretty succinctly. Beware of multitasking.
I don't think Francis means I can't put one project down before it's finished and pick up another task, then later on return to the first, unfinished project. Let's distinguish between a "project" and a "task" here. Multi-project-ing seems necessary, especially since to insist that I finish a less-important project before performing a vital duty, just because the first project came first, would prevent me from setting meaningful priorities or responding in charity to people's real needs.
But while we may have a lot of plates in the air at any one time, it is indeed true that we cannot have our attention focused on all of them at once, and so we may as well stop trying. Doing one thing at a time is necessary to do any thing with care and diligence.
More from Francis:
In all you do rely entirely on God's providence, on which all our plans depend for their success; nevertheless do your part peacefully, assured that, if you trust in God, the result will always be for the best even though it may not seem so to you.
I must remember that I don't have absolute control. In all I do I should embrace the process and let go of the outcome; do my own part in any endeavor with care and diligence, and remain peaceful and detached about the results, finding tranquility in the knowledge that I have done my work well.
Act like little children who cling with one hand to their father while they gather strawberries or blackberries with the other. Hold fast with one hand to that of your heavenly Father while gathering and handling the things of this world with the other; turn to him from time to time to see if he is pleased with what you are doing, being careful never to let go of his protecting hand on the pretext of gaining more, for apart from him you will not take a single step without falling.
In other words, Philothea, when your everyday duties do not demand any very great attention, look more on God than your work; but when they are so important that they demand your whole attention turn to him from time to time, like sailors bound for port, who keep their eyes on the sky rather than on the ocean; in this way, God will work in you, with you, and for you, and your work will bring a blessing.
As usual, Francis's advice is very moderate. He recognizes that most of us can't have God at the top of our attention all the time if we're going to do well the work that our state in life calls us to do. But he does remind us that we have to keep pausing our work to "check in" with God — through prayer, certainly, and also through reviewing what we know He demands of us.
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In this post and the last two posts, I've tried to show what Francis has specifically to say about the virtues of well-ordered response to one's duties. In the next post, I'll sum it up and try to turn it into a sort of step-by-step plan.
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