My weekend took a serious nose dive on Friday due to a pain in the butt. Some of you had the same thing happen on Friday but you are thinking of a co-worker or boss or date or family member.
But I mean a literal pain in the butt.
Long story very short: I’m suffering from a dislocated/sprained tailbone. And by suffering I mean SUFFERING. And by short story I mean I have no idea how it happened. But it did.
It has been a long, emotional weekend. Despite what you might think, that is actually different than most of my weekends.
I’m tired from constant pain. I’m angry about missing out on big moments with my youth. I’m exhausted from never finding a comfortable position. I’m agitated about being stuck indoors and not being able to be active. I’m frustrated at my whining. I’m worried about how long the healing will take and plans I have made that are potential casualties. I’m ashamed because the pain I’m feeling is less and temporary while the pain many others feel is more and permanent.
And one of the biggest emotions: I HATE being dependent.
My parents had to put my shoes and socks on for me this morning. They had to load me in their car and drive me to church/work. They carried my bags. My mom had to lift my legs in and out of the car. My overworked dad mowed my yard and tended to my landscape while I stood on the deck and watched. (Standing is the least painful position and the deck meant I was outside.)
This weekend friends had to step in and take charge of a big youth event. Friends who had a free weekend suddenly lost it because I couldn’t take care of my responsibilities.
Throughout the weekend, friends jumped in to get me help, drove me around, ignored me when I said “I got this”, picked up my car, hugged me while I hurt, prayed for me, picked up my slack at church, etc., etc., etc. The list is long.
I feel helpless. I feel like a burden. I feel weak.
(Editor’s Note: This is where I ended my blog on Sunday night. Thankfully, I had enough sense to not publish it when I was drunk on chocolate and self-pity. A part of me knew that morning was coming. Morning often casts a new light on the dark.)
Morning came. Along with a new surges of pain from sleeping positions. Along with a 15 minute, frustrating maneuver to get out of bed. Along with the realization that it didn’t magically go away in the night.
But as the sun poured into my house through the windows, it also poured in gratitude. Gratitude for a new day. Gratitude for an Abba who reminds me that I belong to Him. Gratitude for a Jesus who takes my face in his hands and keeps my eyes on Him, not my circumstances. Gratitude for the Spirit that whispers Love to me to quiet the noise of discomfort.
And gratitude for the many people who love me. Friends who teach me the beauty of receiving help. Youth who show me that I matter to them and am missed. Family who demonstrate what the word family really means.
Morning often casts a new light on the dark.
And in the morning light, I feel loved. I feel grateful. I feel blessed.