My Way Isn’t Working

Patience is a virtue. It isn’t one of mine. Now if stubbornness were a virtue, I’d be golden. Don’t be misled, I don’t mean the never-give-up type of perseverance that has brought me through some really rough times. I mean the hard-headed, I-got-my-Irish-up stupid type of stubborn that has a tendency to land me in trouble. Yeah, there’s no spiritual reward in that kind of stubborn. Trust me on that one.

Still nursing my injured foot, I lasted five whole days on the crutches before I did anything overly stupid. Then I decided I could cook dinner and hobbled around the kitchen on one crutch to do it. Not only did I make the foot incredibly sore but I also burned my hand in the process. Given another four days, I decided to walk the half mile from my lousy commuter student parking space to my sociology class using only one crutch, not taking into account the fact that I had to then walk back. I was in tears by the time I got back to my car. That was three days ago and as of this very moment, I’m sitting at the kitchen table, with my foot iced and elevated, crutches by my side, sipping on a cup of strong Irish tea and pondering ways to bake a batch of snickerdoodles without putting weight on my foot – or if there is any way I can get away with putting just a little weight on it.

My younger son watched me get up yesterday and head into the kitchen on one crutch and called after me, “Uh, Mom, should you be using TWO crutches. You’re never going to get off them if you keep this up.”

Darn kid. Why did I ever teach that one to talk? But he makes a valid point. I know if I use both crutches and stay off my foot as much as possible, it doesn’t hurt and the swelling goes down considerably. So why do I keep trying to do what I usually do? Because I can’t stand not being able to do things for myself and in my own way. Because I can’t stand having to ask for help. Because the only way for this foot to heal is to be still and wait.

Be still and wait. I’m perfectly fine with being still. Sometimes. At times of my choosing. For finite amounts of time. Oh alright, I’m okay with being still when it’s on my own terms. And waiting – also, for finite amounts of time and on my own terms.

How many times have I needed God’s help and wouldn’t ask? How many times did I decide to limp along and make things worse rather than be still and wait for the healing or answers or guidance that I needed? How many times am I going to charge ahead with only half of what I need? How many times am I going to let my stupid pride trip me up, both spiritually and physically? What’s going to take to get through this thick head of mine?

Maybe spending a third week on crutches will get me to sit still and ponder these questions. Maybe after a batch of cookies…Hey, this office chair has wheels, I’m sure I can manage on my own.

Okay. Okay. I’ll admit it. I can’t stand being laid up because I can’t stand not being in control because not being in control scares the shit out of me. But I also have to admit, my way isn’t working. Maybe it’s time to let go, be still and wait.

Swearing at God

These last two weeks have decidedly not gone at all well. To fully appreciate this post you have to know three things: I have serious fear of bees. When I get hurt, it is always in the weirdest of ways. Patience is a virtue, but it isn’t one of mine.

Since I was a little kid, I have been deathly afraid of bees. So when I parked at the beach two weeks ago on a beautiful, breezy Sunday morning, planning to spend a Sunday morning as I often do, praying and writing and listening to the waves, I was horrified when three yellow jackets came into the car. They weren’t buzzing around where I could shoo them out an open window. They crawled down between the seats, into my purse and essentially settled in for a lengthy stay. I, on the hand, bailed out of the car barefoot, having kicked off my sandals when I parked. There were scores of angry, aggressive yellow jackets outside the car too. I couldn’t get in the car and I couldn’t stay outside the car. I ended up fleeing down the sidewalk, down a flight of steps and across a rocky beach to escape the little devils. I actually had to call my sister to bring a can of Raid so I could at least get back into my car.

Somehow in my escape, I managed to step wrong or miss a step or step on something. Being in a full-blown panic over the bees, I honestly couldn’t tell you exactly what I did but in the end, I injured my heel and could barely stand to put weight on my foot. So naturally, knowing something was obviously very wrong, I limped around for a week hoping it would just go away. Yeah, denial ain’t just a river in Egypt. The last thing in the world I wanted to do was explain to the family doctor that was I pretty sure I broke my foot running from a nest of angry yellow jackets. The man has already witnessed the time I sprained my knee while dressed up as the Easter Bunny and the time my dog broke my nose so I really, really didn’t want to add this little gem to my file. But after a week, I couldn’t stand the pain anymore and I went to see him. He was kind enough to keep a straight face. While it’s not all out broken, there is a hairline fracture on the heel spur and I’m to stay off my foot for a few weeks until the swelling goes down and I can put weight on it without pain and then we’ll reassess how to treat it. Yes, I, the hopeless klutz, am now on crutches. Yes, this is a disaster in the making. I never appreciated how many steps I take in a day, usually with something in my hands, until I had to use these blasted things. I am a horribly impatient patient.

When I parked at the seawall two weeks ago, I was in a pretty decent place with God. We had stuff to talk about but it was all good. But as I settled into my place and mindset of prayer, all hell broke loose. For most of the following week, every time I tried to pray, the first words out of my mouth were, “What the [expletive] was that?!?!”  Okay. Understandable. I was a little shaken and in pain. But now two weeks later, every conversation with God is prefaced with, “I’m still royally pissed off at You…”

The writing I was planning to do that day remains unwritten. And I’ve had a hard time being still. I’m frustrated beyond reason by my sudden, temporary limitation. I try to tell myself to be reasonable. I mean really, what was God supposed to do: put a bubble around my car? Send angels to carry me to safety? Smite the bees? Smiting the bees really would have been my first choice. I don’t know what I expected, but the fact that I came to a quiet place, to keep a standing date and was not only chased from it but wounded in the process really bugs me. (Pun very much intended.) If this had happened anywhere else, would I be as angry? Probably not. Was it that big of a deal in the grand scheme of things? No. And have I dealt with far worse without being such a brat about it? Yes. Is there a lesson in this mess? Probably. And maybe it’s that it’s okay to honestly give God a piece of my mind now and then, even if it’s over stupid little stuff.