I am a lover of words.
The height, the depth, the power in them.
And yet, when I try to describe the most sacred places in my life, they often fail me.
But they are all I have to share in a week where gratitude may feel a bit fragile or tenuous, prompting me to write of unexpected grace wrapped in an unconventional wish list.
A list that endeavors to show what it feels like to have a brain that misfires or feet that fail or illness that does not lift or leave. A list that weaves what years of pain and 20 pills a day write on your body. A list that reconciles how we all rejoice over colds and bugs without fever or hospitalization.
A list that puts into words what my days, my hours, and my minutes are really like not to evoke pity or sympathy but because I want you to hear me when I say...
“I am grateful for the body God has gifted to me.”
It is gratitude not manufactured or contrived or masqued. It is hard-won and comes from a place I don’t allow many but Jesus to go. But it is also in this place you will hear of how God can use what the world perceives to be a burden as a gift of mercy.
And in a year and a time where all the gratitude we have is hard-won, it is where I want to go with you. To a part of me that will not be fully satisfied until I can climb up on my Father’s lap and speak these words with His face in my steady hands:
“Lord, thank you for a brain that misfired. Thank you for being with me during the eye rolls, impatient sighs, and frustration of others who simply didn’t understand. Thank you for teaching me how to love others who didn’t get it on the first try or the second or even the twentieth.
Thank you for feet that stumbled. Thank you for slowing me down long enough I could not help but look beside me or right in front of me. Thank you for showing me how much you miss when your eyes are too far ahead of the needs in front of you.
Thank you for mind-blowing exhaustion. Thank you for meeting me every day at the precise moment where I said, “I can’t do this.” Thank you for whispering back every time, “Sweet girl, I know, I’m here and I can.”
Thank you for my pain. Thank you for freeing me from the guise of earthly perfection, taking me to a place where I didn’t need perfect abs, a perfect waist, or a perfect backside. Thank you for allowing me to rejoice over a body that simply functions to share a perfect You.
Thank you for giving me a daily glimpse of the Cross. Thank you for showing me how to give hugs and snuggles without thinking about what it might cost me. Thank you for the days where such love hurt beyond imagination, for in many ways, it meant that much more.
Thank you for the fragility of my health. Thank you for reminding me how big You are even in the face of strokes and sepsis and life-threatening complications. Thank you for giving me the perspective to rejoice over colds and pray over those for which it meant more than just tissues and sore throats and couch time.
Thank you for gifting me with what many saw as a broken-down, sad little shell. It may not have been fancy or strong or impenetrable. But in so many ways, Father, it was the perfect armor for the warrior you needed in me.
It bested me so there was more room for You.
It cared more about my humility than my pride.
It fashioned me into what eternity required, rather than what I selfishly wanted.
So Father, thank you...
Thank you for showing me mercy so big it deserves to be spoken today, tomorrow, and always.