Night sweats distort my perception, and the repeated waking makes the night feel tedious. I'm awake now, with boys needing breakfast, a husband needing peace and I'm unfit for duty with this heart all blurry and water coloured.
It's a full time job to pretend I'm okay.
I'm not.
Soul is knocking at my locked bedroom door. I've pleaded with Huz to let me have half an hour to cry and be on my own. Writing calms me, and lets the pain take a shape. It's less elusive than the big bad wolf of fear breathing down my neck. At least on paper I can search my heart and the places I've let fear be the hero instead of my Saviour.
I need a Saviour.
This volume of pain must be measured beyond what I can manage. What must be tonnes and tonnes of heavy worry surely can't be just for me?
The hours drag out when my bones ache, and my body just won't cooperate to heal. I count down the hours until I can have a bath as a distraction.
And I should really hit the delete button on this post because it's not masquerading as upbeat, it's just the cry of my heart...help me God for the waters are up to my neck.
My hope is being tested in the firey furnace, and I'm crouched on the sidelines with fingers and toes crossed I will come through.
I can hear one of the boys being put in time out. There's crying and wailing, and 'Dadddddyyyy...I want Mummy', and then it's only a second before this changes to, 'sorry Dad, sorry Dad, sorry'.
Am I that much different from my boys?
I would make this pain vanish in a second if I could. It's beyond my capacity. I can't choose the path, but I can choose whose hand I am holding as I walk through.
And I won't be letting go of the hand of God.
This I know.
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