Darkness has barely given way to morning light. I'm still in bed. And exhausted.
I will myself to move. Stand. Every joint burns, and I shuffle and limp from the bed to the kitchen - reaching for support along the way.
Before coffee, I head straight for the meds that promise relief, but my red, swollen fingers won't cooperate. I spill an entire bottle of pills - across the counter, onto the floor, under the stove.
And I want to cry.
At the edge of what feels like defeat, I give my fears a voice.
I don't think I can do this.
Extravagant gifts remain packaged on the dining room table for almost 2 days - a real camera and lenses. Gifts I don't believe I deserve. Gifts I find myself nearly paralyzed to use.
What if this "real" camera proves I'm not a photographer? What if I'm disappointing God? What if I'm a disappointment to everyone?
Confidence to do anything - write, speak, photograph, learn, think, cook, or even, love - vaporizes as I let fear and defeat speak into my life.
The day's appointments and possibilities loom menacing before me and the I can'ts and what ifs multiply in a cacophonic chorus.
What if I really can't do what is expected of me anymore?
I make my way out of the kitchen and ease into my long-established daily rhythms - the renewing of my mind disciplines of study and prayer; and Charles Spurgeon. Oswald Chambers. Ann Voskamp. Scotty Smith. and Paul speak biblical truth to my pitiful, fearful soul.
Darkness gives way to light, and I'm reminded that nothing depends on me, but to depend on God who strengthens me.
