The time that is given us

Tenderness is being alive

strength (noun) — “the capacity for endurance; the power of resisting attack”

“This isn’t what I ordered.” His voice drips with lament as Evan wrinkles his nose, peeling back the buttered bun. He glowers at the pickles hidden in his chicken sandwich.

“Sorry, bud,” I say, frowning with him. Offering compassion. Because I get it: life doesn’t always deliver what we order.

For several days this month, all my energy went to coping with a horrible, relentless ache across the left side of my face. Rest and stillness amplified the pain. My only relief was to keep moving, to keep distracting myself from the throbbing. I read three books in as many days (truthfully, nights), huddled with hot compresses while I waited in agony for another dose of Tylenol. I needed sleep. I needed help.

This wasn’t what I ordered.

I write from a very current moment, just after this strange sinus/nerve issue. Medicine is a miracle, and I’m grateful for the ER and the neurologist who ultimately helped me find relief. So far, so good. The unborn baby is safe, my pain is managed, and I will not miss the opportunity to praise these beautiful truths.

But even the praise is tender. Fear threatens my longing to hope. Will I wake with more pain in the night? Will it consume me tomorrow? Will this condition become chronic?

“I wish it need not have happened in my time,” said Frodo.

“So do I,” said Gandalf, “and so do all who live to see such times. But that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us.”

There’s a reality to brokenness. Unwanted pickles and nerve pain fall on very different scales, but some skills are the same. Evan is learning how to voice his disappointment, find ways to pivot, and continue living. I’m learning the same — to speak my distress and be heard, to let help in, and to embrace the comfort of those who care about my disappointments and sorrow.

Evan¹? He gave the pickles to Daddy and carried on with his sandwich.

And me? I offer another half-formed prayer, swallow the steroids, and praise the blessing of pain relief — though still afraid that more pickles (er, pain) could be on the horizon.

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A tender heart is strong because it acknowledges weakness. A tender heart is fully alive to the woes and wonders of the world.

Where can you acknowledge disappointment or honor hurt? How are you letting your tender self live?

Rachael

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This post is part of a blog hop with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to view the next post in the November series, "Tender."

1. Not his real name :)