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by Judith Gayle Smith-Owens Vitouswykegardinerclark
07/20/21
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I am exhausted. Totaled out. What doesn't hurt does not exist. My physical and emotional states display that I am flying upside down. And, just think - it is not all about me.

So glad I'm a preacher's wife and not a pastor's wife. Preachers holler. Pastors hug. Right now I don't mind having people semi-avoid us. I am in a poor state of stunned stupor.

I am being stupidly selfish. I tell myself that if I was a nurse during the Civil War nothing would faze me, whether pooling blood or oozing excrement. I would slap on my snappy cap, paste a genuine loving smile over my distraught distended nostrils, and have a bit of a go with the cleanup.

The preacher has fallen off the commode - while making a deposit, a very large continuing deposit (warning: for sensitive souls, this continuing lament may prove odiferous, whiney, self-centered).

If we had children, perhaps the diapering stage would have strengthened me for the knockout punch landed in my gut this afternoon. Adults, so much bigger, do so much more.

My shaky arms refused to function but had enough oomph to call 911. I could not hope to lift my sweetie from the convoluted position he collapsed upon himself. He was in the utmost discomfort and the foulest of tempers, understandably.

When the firemen finally arrived and extricated my suffering husband from his most uncomfortable entanglement, managing to lift him from the floor to his motorized chair (praise God), I was so relieved that I didn't pay close attention to their raised eyebrows questioning whether or not we would be okay after they left. Braindead. Clean up? Shower? Of course, we reassured them that all would be well.

Except my love had lost all zip - his arms would not cooperate. I wept quietly in my wheelchair behind his and prayed for strength I wasn't really convinced I wanted. After about an hour, we both had enough power (thank God) to complete his undressing and settle him in the shower.

I needed to apply myself to cleaning Mike's uniquely smeared chair - I will never again look at chocolate pudding the same. (Ouch. That grossed even me).

You may note that there are several thank You offerings to our Creator - beginning with firemen, continuing with soap and water, and into a warm soft jogging suit. His faithful power chair escorted him to a comfortable snuggle in our freshly made bed.

Life has its awkward moments. This is a grossly unpleasant subject I never imagined writing about. After all, I am a preacher's wife. I counsel folks, for Heaven's sake (literally). I am the cool head, the steady gaze, the clasping hand, the always available shoulder. How to tell myself I needed all those things for myself?

Praying for others is what we do. Being instant in prayer. We do not pray enough for our own desperate situations until we are thoroughly muddied in them. We do have a wondrous Father who hears and answers our littlest seemingly insignificant prayers. He keenly knows we realize this - He wants us to accept our helplessness and need for Him.

Thank you, Father - for cleaning up our messes. For empowering us when we have been totally zapped. Because of You we survived this one day. We will remember Your help, knowing that there will be other days, but that You are always ready to strengthen our weakening hearts and limbs.

All glory belongs to You Father, for Jesus - our Heartbeat and for being the Power that electrifies and motivates our beingness.

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