In a few hours, I’ll climb into an MRI to get images taken of my hand. My left hand. My dominant hand. The hand I write with. To say I might be a little anxious, well, that’s an understatement.
A few hours ago when I woke because my pain meds had worn off I was reminded of the seriousness of the situation. I can’t use my hand. While it sounds all fine and dandy to say I can just voice text the rest of my next book, I’m a writer. My thoughts, the dialogue, the story, has always flowed through my hands and onto the paper or keyboard. I think best when I’m typing. Yet here I am, voice texting this blog. And when I go back to edit it, I’ll only be able to use one hand. Writing is extremely difficult right now. But then again, so is daily life.
I prayed this ridiculous prayer about a month ago that every mother and wife probably prays at some point in her life . “Lord, let them know how much I do for them. Give them a glimpse of how I take care of them, what I sacrifice for them.”
I didn’t expect God to answer my prayer by incapacitating me, but then again, we don’t get to choose how He answers our prayers. Which reminds me of His sovereign. He allows nothing in my life without His permission. His hand is upon me. And ultimately, my identity is found in Him. Not in the words I write. Not in the acts I do for my family. Not even in the love I give to others. My identity is found in the sacrifice Christ made on the cross. He loved me enough to die for me. Period. Not because of what I achieved or because of who I would become. But because of who He is.