In January, I prayed for a miracle.
I got a diagnosis.
Though it brought a little encouragement that there was a reason for all this, not a miracle. Doctors diagnose things.
I discovered a person I wanted to become friends with.
Not a miracle. It’s a small world, after all. Turns out, she’s practically famous.
Since that time, I’ve had 4 days of pain-free, energy, and focus. Two in February. Two in March.
Not a miracle. Little chemical accidents in the chaos.
On Friday last, the on-call doc stepped me back off the meds and I became suicidal. He didn’t warn me of potential side effects, because he didn’t think it was necessary.
But he did remind me that the Bible tells us:
“37 They were stoned, they were sawn in two, they were tempted, they were put to death with the sword; they went about in sheepskins, in goatskins, being destitute, afflicted, ill-treated 38 (men of whom the world was not worthy), wandering in deserts and mountains and caves and holes in the ground.39 And all these, having gained approval through their faith, did not receive what was promised,”
I didn’t commit suicide.
I can get back to making a half-assed life for my family.
The doctor was right. God is still trustworthy even if nothing ever changes; even if I’ve tasted ‘regular’ and know exactly what I and my family don’t get to have.
This post is brought to you by the doctor’s office and the pharmaceutical manufacturer. And their insurance company, CYA.