Written October 26 & 27, 2020
I do my best writing when given a really good pen and actual paper. It seems my brain formulates thoughts better when my words are expressed through ink. Don’t know why. That’s just how I’m wired. So, as you can imagine, it didn’t take long for me to realize the conniving going on by the devil and his cohorts when my dominate writing hand inflamed, taking it out of commission just two weeks into starting my new blog on hope.
On Sunday, October 25, 2020, a serious sharp pain shot up the radial bone in my right arm. It came out of no where. Literally. No extensive typing or handwriting. No falls. No bumps or bruises. Not even the possibility of having slept on it funny. A complete mystery enshrouded this intense, unrelenting agony near my wrist, but real knife-like stabbing took my breath away just the same. As the day progressed, unavoidable tears accompanied simple tasks, making me aware I should have my aching arm looked at by a medical professional, but how would I explain the cause? It felt broken, but it couldn’t be. Could it?
After following COVID safety protocols at a nearby urgent care and signing in, a nurse took my vitals then escorted me by myself to a draped-off room in the back of the building. No TV. No music. Nothing to distract my mind from the ache. Just me, trying to balance my purse on my lap so it wouldn’t hit the floor. Truly a quiet environment—except for a couple nurses talking occasionally at a nearby desk. Sitting alone, the struggle to remain strong crept in. I didn’t want to be alone. But why? I’m a grown woman. I don’t need someone holding my hand. (The uninjured one, of course.)
Quietness can make you focus on parts of your heart you may not want to look at, otherwise; and this felt like one of those moments. So, I asked God: what are You wanting me to learn? Why am I sitting in this room without distractions? My arm shouldn’t be hurting, so there’s gotta be a reason You brought me here. What am I not getting?
My answer: fear. You need to trust Me. Give Me your fear.
Fear about what? My arm? I know it’s going to be ok. Fear about my heart condition and possibly catching COVID? A clinic isn’t a safe place for me to be right now, but You’ve protected me this far. I know You’ve got that covered, too. God, I don’t get it. I’m not holding onto fear. As ready of an answer as I could give surfaced, followed by flashes of six-year-old me with a broken arm laying on a similar stretcher bed at a clinic a few weeks before Christmas a few decades earlier. Mom had been sitting on one side of the bed, dad had been pacing on the other; and the feeling came back. Fear.
I remember. But what does that have to do with right now? I mentally acknowledged. My heart panged with loneliness, imagining my mom with me, and suddenly I missed her. I want my mom! I whispered. I don’t care how old I am, she got me through this before. I need her now. Tears started wetting the rim of my face mask, and I rolled my eyes, feeling ridiculous. I have two nearly adult children of my own. I’m not a child.
I kid you not. In that very moment, my phone buzzed with a text from Mom: “It’s strange–every time I think of you, I smile.” She had no idea an injury had me sitting at a clinic, or that my heart had just cried out for comfort, wanting her with me, but God knew. And He answered: Let go of your fear of living. I’ve gotcha!
Wars. Famine. Fires. Double hurricanes. Murder hornets. Crooked politicians. Innocent people being killed. A world-wide pandemic. The list goes on and on. It’s hard not being swallowed up by everything going on around us. But, as my evening devotional reminded me after coming home from seeing the doctor: “…the Lord will deliver me from every evil attack and will bring me safely into his heavenly Kingdom. All glory to God forever and ever! Amen.” 2 Timothy 4:18 NLT
(By the way, no ink was used in the writing of this article. Appears one-finger typing works, as well. God will always meet you where you’re at. The devil will not prevail!)