Friday, January 13, 2017

Dear God,

Sometimes we just have to come running to you.  We just have to let the dike crack and bread.  We just have to let the truth out so the compassion can come in.

I am sick.  I am weak.  My surgery went well but the rest of me is not well.  My new knee is great but many of my blood levels reveal way too many highs and lows, a couple way out of range.  I feel terrible.  I was walking without any aid and doing well but now I have to grab for them because I am too weak to do otherwise.  And every time I reach out for assistance, I know I am also stretching out to grasp onto you.

For nearly a month I was on my own with a doctor who could only say, "Normal, normal, that's all normal."  Even though I try to convey my decline, like the loss of 17 lbs. in a month it was like the birdie in the clock that pops out and chirps, "Normal, normal, that's all normal."  As I continued on the slide downward, I began to believe, "The surgery went well but the patient died." 

I feel vulnerable, like my life is ebbing away and nobody in the medical community cares.  I can hardly pray, too tired, too weak, too foggy.  And I fall off to sleep again for the umpteenth time.

But then a call comes, my own physician, and then I find myself at the altar of your heart and I begin to eat from the table, the holy table of eternal life, the bread, the wine, the juice, the crackers.  When I eat, it is not only the physical food but the essence of spirit food given me by a holy hand.

Hope, true hope
comes from you.
We may
labor hard;
we may
journey long
but the table
of the Lord
is always set
for the weak,
the weary,
the hungry,
the lost.
Thanks be
to God.

Love, Andrea