God took me out of my comfort zone this week.
I fell in the parking lot of my workplace the other day, bringing many an extra pound down on the right side of my body.
Ouch.
My ribs have been screaming for mercy ever since. I've been handling the problem appropriately - making phone calls and appointments, caring for myself with the help of loving family, but the long and the short of it is, I ended up in the ER yesterday.
Lest my reader is wondering, I don't do the ER.
Oh, I do it for other people - I'm very good at that.
Why not? I've had tons of practice, what with caring for sick parents, injured children, nervous friends. I'm great at advocating, advising, encouraging, and generally lending support.
See, I'm a person who helps others, NOT a person others help.
Oh, I've needed help over the years when life got messy.
And I've hated every minute of it.
I hated the situation that put me in a position of needing help, whether it was illness, incapacity, life drama - you name it.
And I hated needing help.
I figured out why yesterday.
Pride. Pure and simple.
There's a lot of talk going on these days about identity, and I find much of it ridiculous and even dangerous. But that's for another article.
Then again, maybe it's not.
Without taking this post in a completely different direction, let me just say, for the record, that self-perception can be misleading at best and devastating at worst.
For example, if I'm human but see myself as a gorilla, I put myself at an extreme disadvantage by seeking medical care from a vet as opposed to an MD.
But back to the main topic. The bottom line is, we all identify some way. We see ourselves in a certain light.
I like to see myself as someone who has overcome many obstacles, continues to overcome new ones, and generally makes her way in the world.
I've written extensively about the love and help from family and friends that picked me up when I couldn't do so for myself, and the voices that spoke truth and hope to me at the darkest times of my life. These interventions were nothing short of divine, the hands and mouthpieces of God, as it were. I'm not forgetting that for one moment.
Nevertheless, in day to day life, I enjoy getting things done. Tackling tasks and ticking them off my to-do list.
It kind of puts a crimp in that when you have to think before breaths and movements, taking into consideration in advance the best and least painful position to accomplish the aforesaid.
So, when I found myself in the ER, I felt vulnerable. Oh, and silly.
Because, as I said, I don't do the ER. At least, not for myself.
Things that helped?
Patient and caring medical staff who assured me I had reason to be there, despite my apologetic attitude (after all, I wasn't bleeding to death or even unconscious).
Several unlooked for blessings. My right hand, which is also my dominant hand, took part of the blow, but is functioning just fine. Likewise, my right knee and hip, for which I sought treatment through an arthritis doctor and physical therapy a few short years ago, show no signs of acting up. And, in testimony to God's infinite sense of humor and penchant for the absurd (think sacrificing His perfect Son for a horribly imperfect world), a heel spur on my right foot, which has been plaguing me for months, feels remarkably better!
Not least, a tattoo on the arm of a technician which spoke to my embarrassed heart. Again, for the record, I don't like tattoos (sorry, sons), finding them generally unappealing and altogether frivolous and unnecessary in a nation where people are going to bed hungry (not to mention the fact that God forbids them). That said, this one hit the proverbial spot.
It read simply, You are loved. You are worthy. You are enough.
A cross bracketed the whole phrase.
Resisting the urge to question the theology of the sentiment (if we were worthy and enough, why would the Son of God have had to die excruciatingly at the hands of brutal men?), I have to say it was just what I needed.
Fast forward to today. Notwithstanding an arm angry from a tetanus shot and pride wounded by fingers poking around my flabby midsection, I choose to hold my head high, realizing it's a head, however unworthy, that the Son of God died for.
Despite all the mental torture I put myself through about my situation being less deserving of treatment than that of the poor baby wailing down the hall from me, I have to say God came through. He gave me presence of mind to ask the right questions, seek clarification, and leave with the materials needed for a follow-up appointment next week.
He even saw to it that the hospital validated the parking.
Talk about being enough.
I fell in the parking lot of my workplace the other day, bringing many an extra pound down on the right side of my body.
Ouch.
My ribs have been screaming for mercy ever since. I've been handling the problem appropriately - making phone calls and appointments, caring for myself with the help of loving family, but the long and the short of it is, I ended up in the ER yesterday.
Lest my reader is wondering, I don't do the ER.
Oh, I do it for other people - I'm very good at that.
Why not? I've had tons of practice, what with caring for sick parents, injured children, nervous friends. I'm great at advocating, advising, encouraging, and generally lending support.
See, I'm a person who helps others, NOT a person others help.
Oh, I've needed help over the years when life got messy.
And I've hated every minute of it.
I hated the situation that put me in a position of needing help, whether it was illness, incapacity, life drama - you name it.
And I hated needing help.
I figured out why yesterday.
Pride. Pure and simple.
There's a lot of talk going on these days about identity, and I find much of it ridiculous and even dangerous. But that's for another article.
Then again, maybe it's not.
Without taking this post in a completely different direction, let me just say, for the record, that self-perception can be misleading at best and devastating at worst.
For example, if I'm human but see myself as a gorilla, I put myself at an extreme disadvantage by seeking medical care from a vet as opposed to an MD.
But back to the main topic. The bottom line is, we all identify some way. We see ourselves in a certain light.
I like to see myself as someone who has overcome many obstacles, continues to overcome new ones, and generally makes her way in the world.
I've written extensively about the love and help from family and friends that picked me up when I couldn't do so for myself, and the voices that spoke truth and hope to me at the darkest times of my life. These interventions were nothing short of divine, the hands and mouthpieces of God, as it were. I'm not forgetting that for one moment.
Nevertheless, in day to day life, I enjoy getting things done. Tackling tasks and ticking them off my to-do list.
It kind of puts a crimp in that when you have to think before breaths and movements, taking into consideration in advance the best and least painful position to accomplish the aforesaid.
So, when I found myself in the ER, I felt vulnerable. Oh, and silly.
Because, as I said, I don't do the ER. At least, not for myself.
Things that helped?
Patient and caring medical staff who assured me I had reason to be there, despite my apologetic attitude (after all, I wasn't bleeding to death or even unconscious).
Several unlooked for blessings. My right hand, which is also my dominant hand, took part of the blow, but is functioning just fine. Likewise, my right knee and hip, for which I sought treatment through an arthritis doctor and physical therapy a few short years ago, show no signs of acting up. And, in testimony to God's infinite sense of humor and penchant for the absurd (think sacrificing His perfect Son for a horribly imperfect world), a heel spur on my right foot, which has been plaguing me for months, feels remarkably better!
Not least, a tattoo on the arm of a technician which spoke to my embarrassed heart. Again, for the record, I don't like tattoos (sorry, sons), finding them generally unappealing and altogether frivolous and unnecessary in a nation where people are going to bed hungry (not to mention the fact that God forbids them). That said, this one hit the proverbial spot.
It read simply, You are loved. You are worthy. You are enough.
A cross bracketed the whole phrase.
Resisting the urge to question the theology of the sentiment (if we were worthy and enough, why would the Son of God have had to die excruciatingly at the hands of brutal men?), I have to say it was just what I needed.
Fast forward to today. Notwithstanding an arm angry from a tetanus shot and pride wounded by fingers poking around my flabby midsection, I choose to hold my head high, realizing it's a head, however unworthy, that the Son of God died for.
Despite all the mental torture I put myself through about my situation being less deserving of treatment than that of the poor baby wailing down the hall from me, I have to say God came through. He gave me presence of mind to ask the right questions, seek clarification, and leave with the materials needed for a follow-up appointment next week.
He even saw to it that the hospital validated the parking.
Talk about being enough.
"For God gave us a spirit not of fear
but of power and love and self-control."
~ 2 Timothy 1:7
2 comments:
Great post Thea! Sorry for your mishap, but in Gods economy, NOTHING IS WASTED!
Pat Atkinson
Thank you, Pat. How right you are!
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