I soaked in the view, including blue skies, scurrying squirrels, falling leaves, and towering trees - like the talking kind in Narnia. At least that's what I like to believe.
The view warmed my soul as the caffeine awakened my senses. By the time I dressed and drove to teach a morning voice lesson, I was crafting a song in my head - a jazzy one that's not quite finished.
But I was thankful. Thankful that I even felt thankful.
I battle double vision more than I want to acknowledge. It's not that what I see is always split in two, although that happens on and off through out my day. But even when an image is single, my muscles are working more than they should, causing a constant feeling of pressure above and between my eyes.
After a neuro-ophthalmology appointment last week and my stubborn refusal to limit computer work after, pain forced me to refrain from lap top use by the weekend. I called my mom and asked her to bring her dog over so I could get a Lily fix. But mom was busy helping dad with his his campaign, a sensible thing to do.
Without my favorite dog to comfort me, I made a phone call. And caught a friend in tears, fighting through her own place of overwhelm. We didn't solve much but found comfort in connection.
And now that almost a week has passed with little time at my machine, I've rested, watched crime TV, and have just lived life without the intense need to accomplish.
I'll never get a book written that way. So I hope prism lenses change things soon. (That appointment is scheduled for mid-October.) But this pause - this divine interruption - gave me the opportunity to enjoy what is.
The talking, towering trees. The rustling, bustling squirrels.
Bonnie's sixtieth birthday party in her wheelchair with our Bible study girls and more.
An unplanned visit from Courtney and Sam.
An hour playing music at the hospice facility where my friend Debi died.
Interaction with my voice and piano students that makes me treasure what I do, like an impromptu lunch with Sue and Gordon today.
I've spent my life feeling like there's more for me to do. Something important yet to accomplish. And mitochondrial disease has slowed progress time and time again. I faced another road bump just last week.
So I just lived. Thankful I can see. With a touch of sad that chocolate, peanut butter, strawberries, and God's mercy soothed.
photo credit: Ed Yourdon via photopin cc
photo credit: Anatoly Kraynikov via photopin cc
photo credit: melolou via photopin cc
Hi Susan, thanks so much for your reply-you've no need to apologise- it sounds as though the rest was very good and necessary for you. I love how you called it a 'divine interruption'-it really makes you see it differently doesn't it? I can relate to the experience of God that changed how you saw things (sorry if I'm not quoting that right-I can't go back and check without losing what I've written!) I had an experience some 7 years back in an intensely difficult time both physically, emotionally and spiritually, where God's love became real in a way I'd never imagined. Whilst I would never want to go back there, it has left a legacy that I know, know, know He is a God of Love. That legacy does provide a comfort and also a desire to push into Him, because I know what an incredible difference He makes, but it also requires seeking Him, to experience some of the depth of who He is..Sorry, going on a bit, but thank you for your lovely replies and your posts-in your weaknesses and perceived limits, He speaks through your words into my life-your life of trust and sharing your walk with Him, good and bad, breathes life to tired bones and weary hearts because it's His life flowing through you-and mitochondrial disease can never stop that! Much love, Vicky x
ReplyDeleteSweet words yet again, Vicky! My best weapon of warfare are these simple words: I love you, Lord, and you love me. I love you, Lord, and you love me. I repeat them often when I'm down the most. They anchor me in the truth we both know. His love is the constant. Love to you!
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