I’m in a strange middle ground, this Wednesday. My entire core feels as though it has imploded, tender to every touch, breath, movement. No one sees this pain, hidden under my oversized t-shirt. I feel as lazy as I look, oscillating between our laz-e-boy and my bed, and yet I cannot seem to will myself otherwise.
I want recognition for this pain, as unseeable as it is. I want fawning. I want words to offer me comfort that I cannot find by other means. I want strokes on the head and kisses on the hand and the babying we might offer our three year old. And I feel like a three year old wanting it, because I’m also reading Kay Warren’s Dangerous Surrender. In it, Kay Warren highlights her conviction for serving AIDS and HIV victims in Africa, as well as child prostitution in Cambodia, all while battling two bouts of cancer. Hmm. So I want sympathy, only to want immediately to pass it along to someone far more deserving. At the end of this week–okay, probably at the end of next week–I’ll be back to normal, blessed beyond measure, surgery and all. I love that God knew, that He could anticipate my own weakness, and keep it so gently in check. I trust my body then to Him, in hopes that He can heal me quickly, that I might be able to turn that sympathy into something more helpful.