I failed to mention that I am now the proud possessor of a blow dryer—a very nice one, with nifty attachments for curls, for which I thank my dear, kind mother. I will no longer have to drag my sopping head from bathroom to bathroom begging for the use of a hair dryer.
Also of note: two weeks have passed and I am still drumming and, wonder of all wonders, improving.
Sunshine warmed the afternoon and we all ventured outside in various directions. I snagged Mom’s phone and dialed Susanna, home from Kenya and recovering from Malaria. We talked for over an hour as she shared her experiences, how the disease (for which she had been inoculated) seemed to be a direct spiritual attack leveled at her by a “mad woman”. She shared her clearest memories of her hallucinations, and admitted the doctor their didn’t think she’d ever make it home. How she miraculously became well enough to fly home with her friends, only to have a severe attack in Detroit and wind up in a little hospital where no one understood Malaria at all. The Lord has been merciful, though, and she is nearly well.
Faithful Tabitha called after supper and we quoted our scriptures and chatted for a while before she finally mentioned that she’s just not very open—that she never really shares much. She’s afraid it won’t come out right. “Start sharing” the Lord prompted me, but confusion overwhelmed. “Share what?” Instead I tried to encourage her, “You’ve shared quite a bit with me,” I offered. Then I told her how I’d been so closed off once upon a time, such a long time ago, secreting everything to myself, afraid to be vulnerable for fear I’d be hurt. “Share,” the insistence became stronger. I hesitated a moment, walked into the laundry room and closed the door and opened my mouth. All of the things I’d be wanting to share with her since we moved came tumbling out, jumbled into a confusing heap of past, present, future. I poured out my frustrations, my heartaches, my joys, my confusion, my doubts about the Lord’s leading and then I shared about “no”. How Jesus told the healed demoniac “no”—not as a punishment, but because He had something better in mind. My mouth worked faster than my mind could process, pouring out the contents of my heart. Before I had finished we were both crying. “Abigail,” she whispered. “I need to share something with you.” It was ten o’clock before we hung up, having emptied ourselves of every secret, fear and doubt and carried them together to the foot of the mercy seat. Perhaps with so much weight off her heart, her broken back will heal.
Lord, the weight of living here
Amid the doubt, the pain, the fear
Could not be born by anyone
Were they not yoked with Thy own Son.
And Thou hast bid that we, like Thee
Should seek to set each other free
By sharing loads to make them light
And thus fulfill the law of Christ.
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