|Take a dose of humility and call me in the morning|
It didn't help that I have this weird quirk in my physiological make-up that renders pain killers nearly useless. I don't know what makes me that way, but my mother is the same way, so there must be something in our gene pool (I'm guessing X-Men related) that makes it so the usual dose has no effect on my pain. I tried to explain this to multiple ER doctors in between my screams, but (as I've encountered in the past) most physicians think I am just faking it or overly dramatic, or wanting extra drugs. Whatever, it's real. Just ask the OB-GYN who nearly started in on my c-section before I objected with an "UM, I CAN FEEL THAT!" yelp to his very surprised "Really?!"expression. True story.
All that to say, the pain killers helped me sleep, but that's about it. My nerves were having to relearn how to function in my back muscles, so a constant Charley-horse contraction of muscle spasms kept me shrieking throughout the day and night. It was so frustrating for me and completely annoying to everyone else, I know. I understand it's no fun being around someone who is repeatedly wincing and grimacing and needing to have you please get her another blanket or drink or remote or pillow or whatever. I hated being incapacitated. Hated.
As brutal as my pain was, though, my husband was suffering as well (my words, not his). He took on full-time super-Dad duty, as well as waiting on me hand and foot. He is not a complainer by nature, but I could tell it was all taking its toll on him. How couldn't it? We were both beyond frustrated. Here we were, new home, new city, new everything...and I'm couch-ridden for two weeks (and for how long, we didn't know at the time.)
|A cozy companion while I was couch-ridden|
It's been almost 4 weeks now, and I'm practically fully recovered. I still have a bruise and stiffness, and it will be a while before I touch my toes again...but, I can walk and drive and even pick my girls up. Hallelujah! If you met me today, you'd never know I was completely debilitated a matter of weeks ago. GOD HEALS. Also, God made our bodies HEALABLE. That's crazy.
I'm learning a LOT of things through these challenging first weeks of our move here. In the wee hours of the morning, when I was weary from the frustrations of the day and propped up by pillows to sleep sitting up (which I did for over two weeks) I would just pray and nag God with my discontent and desires. These are the moments I'm not trying at all. I'm not trying to be kind or cool or even myself. I'm just there, whispering gratitude that's mottled with complaints. No apprehension or pretense. Just Emily and Jesus, in the stillness.
I do stupid things ALL THE TIME with no intention or effort behind them at all. I had no reason for falling down the stairs - it was just one of those freak accidents that suddenly changed the course of our lives for a short while. My actions have repercussions. Sometimes I see them and they effect me deeply. Sometimes they go completely unnoticed. But, they matter, and I matter, and Jesus sees them and uses them and no matter what - we are healable beings in His eyes, regardless of our stupid actions.
I don't need to DO anything for Him to heal me or use me. I want to control life so badly - which is ironic, because when I do try and take the reigns, I'm so bad at it! I'm not in control here. I can't be. I don't truly even want to be. And when I'm stopped (albeit, against my will) and literally left helpless in order to regain perspective on who exactly has the reigns in this here life of mine, I can't deny the experience.
Needing help is humbling. It's uncomfortable for most of us, and that's just ridiculous, because when I pause for a minute and take a step back, I realize that I constantly live in a state of needing help. How can something be so uncomfortable if I'm in a constant state of it? Constant. I'm never going to not need Jesus. Do you hear that? Do you feel that?
Pain killers come and go. Nerves reattach. Muscles regrow. Miraculous healing is present in my very being, my actual person, and yet - this world offers my soul no hope for completion. Only Jesus fills the constant void I have for trying. Trying anything. Trying at all.
So, if there's a few morals to this story at the end of it all (or is this just the beginning, sometimes I lose track?) I'd say this: We all have wounds that need healing. Sometimes these wounds are ugly right away, and sometimes they take a long time to surface. Sometimes no one even sees them. But, they can be healed. We are healable beings, inside and out.
Watch your step, you might be closer to healing than you ever thought possible.