When I was a little girl I was diagnosed with having rheumatic fever. The treatment was daily doses of penicillin and COMPLETE bedrest. The only time I was allowed out of bed was to go to the bathroom. This was my life for over three months. My days consisted of lying on the couch. I can still vividly remember the rough, scratchy, taupeish brown colored brocade fabric, it's swirly pattern being traced by my little fingers, over and over. My entertainment, mountains of books from the library four blocks up our street, sometimes my Barbie doll. I didn't understand this disease. I only knew it had something to do with my heart. No grown-ups took the time to talk to me, to explain that I would get better. So, in my 8 year old mind, I associated anything with the heart with all of the things I had ever heard about people dying from heart attacks. I was terrified each time I would lay my head against the pillow and hear my own heartbeat...terrified that I would actually hear it stop.
My mom, her love language being acts of service, brought me my meals, brought me those piles of library books, and continued doing all of the laundry, cooking and cleaning that it took to keep this household of 7 children functioning. My memories are of her somewhere in the house, or outside at the clothesline, but mostly my memories are of being there on that couch alone, while the noise of life was going on outside, somewhere else. Except for twice a day...first thing in the morning, and last thing every night, my dad carried me. In the morning, he carried me from my bed upstairs down to the couch, and at night, he carried me back up. And out of each 24 hours, those minutes were what I looked forward to, day after long, lonely day...the feeling of being carried in my daddy's arms.
I'm still often at that same place. Often in this world I feel like the noise of life goes on outside, while I am alone with my fears. Often, the love lanquage that other's speak to me, is not the one my heart wants, needs. To this day, books are often my mentors, my company, more than a flesh and blood person. And to this day, the best thing out of each long, and sometimes lonely day, is the time I let my Father carry me. I just lean my head against Him, and rest, feeling loved, cared for, understood, cherished. No matter how loved I am by husband, children, grandchildren, family, friends, church family....it's Daddy's arms I have longed for all of my life.
My mom, her love language being acts of service, brought me my meals, brought me those piles of library books, and continued doing all of the laundry, cooking and cleaning that it took to keep this household of 7 children functioning. My memories are of her somewhere in the house, or outside at the clothesline, but mostly my memories are of being there on that couch alone, while the noise of life was going on outside, somewhere else. Except for twice a day...first thing in the morning, and last thing every night, my dad carried me. In the morning, he carried me from my bed upstairs down to the couch, and at night, he carried me back up. And out of each 24 hours, those minutes were what I looked forward to, day after long, lonely day...the feeling of being carried in my daddy's arms.
I'm still often at that same place. Often in this world I feel like the noise of life goes on outside, while I am alone with my fears. Often, the love lanquage that other's speak to me, is not the one my heart wants, needs. To this day, books are often my mentors, my company, more than a flesh and blood person. And to this day, the best thing out of each long, and sometimes lonely day, is the time I let my Father carry me. I just lean my head against Him, and rest, feeling loved, cared for, understood, cherished. No matter how loved I am by husband, children, grandchildren, family, friends, church family....it's Daddy's arms I have longed for all of my life.
Its my favorite feeling too :)
ReplyDeleteWhat a beautiful memory from a hard situation! This is a great post. I love the picture, too. Thanks so much for sharing; it touches my heart.
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