Hobbling mama #1

Here I am, with my foot in the air, resting.

A minor stress fracture or muscle strain, I think.

Rest is in order.

This wouldn't be so bad if I could actually handle it with grace.

It barely hurts.
I am helped by my children, husband, friends.
I am commanded to be still.
It wouldn't be so bad, if only I could handle it with grace.

Yet I am restless in my rest.
Last week, slowing down and turning off the screens, was rest for my soul even in the busyness that filled our days. This week, my body is not allowed the normal busyness, but my soul wiggles and fights within me.

I sit with my feet up while my daughter makes dinner.
While my friend cleans my kitchen.
While my husband puts children to bed,
and children go to sleep without mommy tucks. And they understand, sort of.
They bring me stuffed animals to comfort me, and I feel forgiven for not getting up.

I receive grace with skin on, and I am grateful, but I hate it.

The Martha in me writhes in agony. 
And I could go to the screens, I could busy myself with countless digital distractions.
It almost feels like a way to rebel from this forced rest.
Artificial busy-ness. But it is not rest, nor is it productivity.

I lost myself in a wonderful novel yesterday, and that was good.
But it was not rest.

I try to rely on the little people for this and that, but it requires so many words. I am worn out from parenting from an armchair.  "Please bring me the red book on the floor, on the FLOOR, the BOOK, the RED book, no THE RED ONE!"
If only they knew how difficult it was, perhaps they would not wrestle around like kids instead of listening, and perhaps I would not erupt in angry words, words directed at them but anger flowing from my unrest.

And I fear even putting words to the emotions because they are ridiculous, overblown, sinful.  Yet I find myself angry:

at the "injustice" of being less than 100% healthy and mobile.
at a family for not seeing what I see in this house, the never-ending list of things to be done, for stopping to chat with me instead of doing, doing, doing the things that should be done around here.
at the ridiculous sympathy offered to me by others.
at being an object of help, of charity
at the fact that I actually need that help and charity.

I am cared-for.
And I fight it like a baby fighting a nap.
I contort my body in all directions, squirming and moving away from the help I need.

This is a minor inconvenience, and I am a big, big girl.
I should be able to handle this without my sin flaring up so bad.

This wouldn't be so bad if I could actually handle it with grace.

And it's funny, in a way.
One would think I would know how to be weak and loved by now;
to worry less about "handling it with grace" and lean more heavily on His grace.

Sometimes, I think the Christian life is simply learning the same lessons over and over again.
Ever feel that way?

be a charity case