I lost my marbles Tuesday morning.
I had my first phone consultation with my doctor’s assistant. She covered a lot of stuff like my medical history, records they needed from us, and, finally, the dreaded stopping of my pain killers. She asked if I still took Tramadol and Norco and injected myself with Toradol. I said yes. She told me to listen closely–the next part was super important. And in her sweet Dutch accent she told me that fourteen days before surgery I would have to stop Toradol.
That’s it. Just Toradol.
I have been very afraid of the two weeks I thought I was going to have to spend in constant and unrelievable level 6-8 pain. So afraid, in fact, I decided to finish school and move up to Sacramento as early as I could to avoid having to function normally under those conditions. And in one sentence, all the preparing I’d been doing, all the stress and anxiety that had been racking my brain, all of it just became pointless.
And this should be something to rejoice over. I mean seriously. Fourteen grueling days without pain killer is no longer a thing. But for some reason I got angry.
Once again, the plans I had made needed to shift. My timeline needed to be adjusted. I’ve lost count of how many times this has happened to me in these last eight months. First I was going to live in Costa Mesa & work full time. Then it was another surgery. Then it was another surgery & living in Sacramento indefinitely starting in June. Then it was April. Then it was end of April. Now it’s sometime a little sooner…sort of.
Turns out I’m one of those control people. Not so much a controlling person, but one who really finds comfort in having a plan. Over and over again I’ve watched that comfort be stripped from me in this time. And this time (much like the eye infection the day before) was just enough to send me over the edge.
I hung up the phone and started crying. I had just heard the most relieving news I probably could have gotten and I responded by rolling over and sobbing into the plushy dorsal fin of my stuffed animal shark (yes I’m 21 & I still sleep with a large plush toy). I told Jesus I was pissed and that I wasn’t a ragdoll. He could stop throwing me around now.
Then, naturally, called my mom. If I haven’t bragged about her already, she’s a real life superhero ninja wizard. She’s God-fearing, wise, & she’s always right.
Ya know what she told me?
“Sweetie, you’re in a vortex. Go spend some quiet time with Jesus because it sounds like you haven’t in a while.”
I knew she was right. As much as I didn’t want to do that, I knew that’s exactly what would put my crazy noggin back on straight. So I went downstairs and opened my journal. I wrote down what happened and noted that my mom told me to do this “so here I am.”
JESUS SHOWS UP EVERY SINGLE TIME.
Sorry, read that again.
(Not sorry) One more time.
I opened my Jesus Calling devotional to the corresponding day (April 7) and was slapped square in the face with the most relevant and specific two paragraphs I’ve ever read at any given time. Here’s a picture of it because you can’t miss this:
I don’t think I need to reiterate how nuts that is. Jesus is real and He is after me and He is intent on getting me through. I told Him not to stop the encouragement He’s been orchestrating in my life. He hasn’t.
But the thing that humbles me most is His inexhaustible patience with me. How many times does He have to show me His grace and love and power before my first thought in every circumstance is “I trust you and I love you.”
Apparently I’m slow to learn.
Thank you Jesus for loving me with a love a million times more steady than my stumbley toddler feet.
Isaiah 64:8 (The Voice) says this:
Still, Eternal One, You are our Father. We are just clay, and You are the potter. We are the product of Your creative action, shaped and formed into something of worth.
How immensely beautiful. Each one of us the product of creative action. Unique circumstances and trials and victories acting as the chisels and brushes God uses to make us into who He intended us to be. Beloved children of invaluable worth.
What if we lived in the knowledge (like the bone-deep understanding) that nothing goes to waste. That Jesus uses everything–if we let Him–to bring us closer to who we are supposed to be, closer to him.
Dang, you know?
I think if I truly understood that, I’d have a lot less ragdoll fits.