This morning, the sun stood up in the atypically bright--for Western New York in early December--sky, and I stood up with it. With the gift of someone to drive me and carry my kids, I walked on crutches into a check-up for the littlest one. After that, I walked, by now a little bit more gingerly, on those crutches into the bank to make a deposit that had been patiently sitting for three weeks on my make-shift dresser in our living-room-turned-first-floor-bedroom. When I got home, I hung my body over the crutches to try to cling to another couple of hours to make lunch for the munchkins, tidy the playroom, and get them settled for naps.
It's unusual for me to be able to be upright for long, so I was pushing pretty hard to take advantage of this strength. I was going to stop and rest. To take a nap when they napped.
But, out of synch with his usual schedule because of his check-up earlier in the morning, the littlest one woke up as soon as the older two went down. I arranged pillows on the floor next to him so that I had something soft underneath my now very painful right leg and arm, and we played.
The girls woke up, anxious to bake and decorate ugly sweater cookies, courtesy of a very creative Aunt of mine. I asked them to set out the ingredients--they're getting so good at that! I was determined to feel like I could do "normal" things.
By this time, though, I was losing my newfound ability to stay vertical, and I was moving at a snail's pace trying to get the cookie batter together with four small hands in the bowl. But, we were baking together--something we so love to do--for the first time in seven weeks. The baby got hungry and was crying. The girls started arguing with each other over something ridiculous, like one having her knee too close to the other's chair. I thought I might be able to surprise Sean and make dinner at the same time, too. For the first time in seven weeks--I was going to try to make dinner. I had even defrosted the meat already. I was going to multi-task. For the first time in seven weeks.
My ability to move freely was fast dwindling. I couldn't keep up. My patience was quickly waning. Stress was surging through me. I wanted Sean to be home--to take over and to rescue me. I felt like I had let my kids down because I couldn't keep up with the expectations I had set for myself for the day. My body was aching and burning.
I needed. To stop. And rest.
Then--help came through the door. My reprieve, wearing flannel and a really cute beard. The one who always reminds me that I'm trying to balance too much and that my goal right now needs to be to erase all of my past goals and just keep everybody alive and loved and fed.
(A little shout-out to the flannel-wearing, cute-bearded man that I love: Tonight, after making dinner and bathing the kids and putting them to bed and doing the dishes and tidying the playroom and taking out the trash, he put up curtains in our living-room-turned-first-floor-bedroom. They were a gift from my wonderful brother and sister-in-law!)
I collapsed. In his arms and then again onto the couch. I stopped. I rested.
And then, I decided that I was going to mope. I wanted to feel the overwhelming emotions that were bubbling up inside of me from the stress that I had layered upon myself throughout the day. I wanted to feel sorry for myself. For the first time in seven weeks. For the first time since the doctors said, "CRPS." I thought I deserved it--to mope.
And do you know what happened? After less than five minutes of my sad, self-pity...I remembered.
I remembered that those feelings are a choice. Just like joy is a choice. I have a choice to sink into feelings of stress and self-pity. I also have a choice to find my identity in Christ's love and in His promises and not in how much I can do or in how well I can do it. I have a choice to rest, and to let the joy of the Lord be my strength, because it is my strength (Nehemiah 8:10). I have a choice to respond in faithfulness, instead of complaining, to the faithfulness that God has always shown me--to do things His way--in the way that I keep repeating to myself throughout this trial:
"Rejoice always; pray continually; give thanks in all circumstances,
for this is God's will for you in Christ Jesus," (1 Thessalonians 5:16-18).
When I am comfortable, or when I am in excruciating pain. When I can run, or when I have the gift of having to slow down and rest. When I can multi-task, or when I can focus on just one thing. When Plan A works, or when I need to figure out a thousand other ways. When I can keep up, or when I need to lower my expectations. When the day is predictable, or when it completely takes me by surprise. No matter what, I want to dwell in the joy of my Lord. Jesus says, "Abide in my love . . . that my joy may be in you, and that your joy may be full," (John 18:9b & 11).
I want this to be true of the way that I walk through this life and of my faith in the One who is all of my strength and all of my joy:
"Therefore, among God's churches we boast about your perseverance and faith in all the persecutions and trials you are enduring. All this is evidence that God's judgement is right, and as a result you will be counted worthy of the kingdom of God, for which you are suffering," (2 Thessalonians 1:4-5).
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