It’s 3 am. And I’m awake…again. The darkness sits heavy on my chest as the sound of the air flicking on echoes hard.
It’s 3:30 am. And I’m too exhausted to function. My kids will be up in a few short hours. Ready for the day when I’m anything but.
It’s 4 am. And I’m brittle, fragile, pieces chipping off as each minute ticks away.
In the last few months, my mom discovered a brain tumor, I had a surgery, my daughter tore her knee and had it reconstructed, and my husband herniated two discs in his neck. We met with the surgeon Wednesday and he scheduled surgery for today, Monday. There’s something unsettling about the speed there.
It’s enough to make a girl run for the hills wrapped in bubble wrap—physically and spiritually—or lie awake at night gasping at the weight of it all.
I’m afraid, desperately wanting answers. I look at Job and his host of unanswered questions. Paul and his unremoved thorn. If I could just see the other side, the why, the how we get there, or even how long.
But there are no easy answers.
Only gut-wrenching, fingertips-holding the edge, desperate choosing faith. I’ve tried so very hard to be strong, but today the last bit of my strength crumbled away, and I’m afraid. Crying into my pillow, doing my very best to float my bed away on my tears.
I’m told it’s the antidote to fear. If only I can get there.
Lord, I believe. Help my unbelief.*