I’m in pain. It’s a pain in my weak left foot. It feels like somebody squeezing a nail into the most tender skin on the outer side of my left sole. It shoots from deep within with an intense and burning pain, making me almost crumble to the floor if I’m standing up. Walking is the most painful misery. If with my cane I’m a slow poke, I cannot describe myself with the nails that shoot from underneath my foot.
That made me think of the Jewish man who was crucified pitilessly with nails to his feet and hands. If I feel I’m about to quit life and cry my pain in high wails, I cannot fathom what it might mean to be victim of people purposefully inserting nails to your feet and hands and then standing around to see you die.
I try to comfort myself thinking of the pain he must have endured and I tell myself that what I’m feeling must be close to nothing compared with the damage that hammer made and the part it played in his death. And I try to make myself strong, but I can’t, I feel the drops of perspiration sliding down, dampening my hair, running down my neck and forehead and I feel like letting myself drop to the floor and weep like a baby.
A kind—hearted young woman helped me today. But I had to ask her for help. I find that to be extremely embarrassing, shaming. It might not be, but I cannot help that feeling. It’s in my genes. She brought me my desk chair with wheels to the hallway a few feet away from my desk, and helped me make it to my desk. A humble thank you, Liz!
Since I do not see how anyone can help me, I try to suffer this pain in my own silent, unobtrusive way, always answering that I’m fine, that it’s nothing. Then I find myself alone and I find myself complaining to God and asking him to help me. I know he knows what I’m feeling, and I know he loves me. Why must I wait for him so long? Then I remember that my time is not his time. And I shut my mouth.
No comments:
Post a Comment