Might as well be on a silver platter…

Our daily walk of faith can be so daily, everyday, and ordinary. Weekly schedules are planned, routine, and ritual. Watching the clock becomes watching the calendar until we realize that we woke up and we have to flip the page over, again.

After some time has passed in our right-living and well-doing we begin to question if we are going anywhere. We evaluate our expenditures of time and energy and analyze our effectiveness in getting jobs done. At this point it’s very easy to resort to man’s acknowledgement and recognition to measure of our performance or determine our worth. If a considerable amount of time passes and our inner queries are met with silence it opens us up to discouragement and frustration.

Of course, being honest with ourselves inevitably results in the realization that we really do fall short of the mark. After all, when we know that someone has already gone before us setting the standard for our life, what else do we conclude but that we can never truly measure up? We want to bloom where we are planted or, as Bill likes to say, keep our minds where our backsides sit. But we can’t help but wonder if our interests and abilities are just too foreign to those we associate ourselves with. Perhaps we are in the way of someone else who can do the job better, or we can do our job better somewhere else. Either way, we just have to think we might need a change.

Then change comes, but not as we have predicted or expected. It comes in the form of a blessing. It doesn’t have to be a big blessing, a blessing we have been seeking, or even a blessing that answers any of our questions. But the blessing confirms our place in the body. We are enriched by the blessing and it refreshes in a way that dispels all discouragement and frustrations. And the blessing equips us for the tasks that are ahead of us.

We respond in the most simple and appropriate way: Thank you.

Glory

In fractured metacarpals and in health...

On Tuesday Bill's side job as Superman took a bad turn. After leaping over a tall concrete barricade he landed on his head and shoulder and injured his hand. He was attending a meeting and when he shakily returned to his colleagues he whispered to one of them that he hurt himself and might have minor shock. He got ice on it and called me requesting my assistance as he went to the Urgent Care clinic. I walked in with him, wrote down his information and sat to his right on the bench.

While we waited, our youngest youngster in his car seat, I examined Bill's shoulder and head. Both had minimal abraisons. Then I looked at his hand and it was definitely swelling. I suddenly realized that they would have to cut his wedding ring off if the swelling continued. I tried turning it as Bill gasped and whimpered. A lady who was with her mother offered a small tube of hand lotion to lubricate Bill's finger. It worked and we successfully removed his wedding ring. Bill described the feeling inside his hand as crunching. We were called for more information and our copay which I handled as well. Then I sat on his left - his injured side - and tried to comfort him with an arm around his shoulder. As well-intentioned as it was he uttered a guttural protest to my affectionate gesture and the others waiting laughed. I felt silly and apologized nervously.

When Bill was finally called in he was examined, x-rayed, and examined again. The x-ray confirmed that he had splintered the fourth metacarpal of his left hand. He has an appointment to get a cast on Monday but he has a hand splint and a bottle of vicodin to get him through. In other words, his Superman days are suspended. He stayed home from work Tuesday afternoon but has been to work yesterday and today. However, being forced to alter his duties and slow down is hardly simple or easy.

Once a man of multiple abilities and talents he must do most of his jobs one-handed. Once a man of razor-sharp wit and responsiveness he requires further explanation and simpler queries. Now he is a hand-splinted acetaminophen and hydrocodone-hazed Super-de-dooper-man!

And I will be his extra pair of hands as he opens soda bottles, butters toast or ties his shoes or buttons, zips, and belts his pants. And when evening falls I will be his sofa-buddy as we sit through our ample supply of Twilight Zone episodes. Death Ship is especially tragic in a funny kind of way...

Glory