I'm never ill. Not properly. Of course I get sore throats and colds - and make a great big fuss about them - but painful unexplained illness isn't for me. Or hasn't been until now.
And somehow amidst all the pain and fear of the what-ifs I lost sight of God. I struggled to pray - didn't even think to pray apart from the odd quickly uttered 'Help me!'
So I'm really pleased that lots of other people did manage to pray for me. And I'm very grateful to you one and all.
Please keep praying that my outpatient appointment comes through soon and that whatever the problem is can be resolved easily. Also that I stop fretting and worrying that the pain will come back in the meantime. And that the what-ifs are kept at bay.
The title of this post is from a poem called Prayer by Carol Ann Duffy:
Some days, although we cannot pray, a prayer
utters itself. So, a woman will lift
her head from the sieve of her hands and stare
at the minims sung by a tree, a sudden gift.
Some nights, although we are faithless, the truth
enters our hearts, that small familiar pain;
then a man will stand stock-still, hearing his youth
in the distant Latin chanting of a train.
Pray for us now. Grade 1 piano scales
console the lodger looking out across
a Midlands town. Then dusk, and someone calls
a child’s name as though they named their loss.
Darkness outside. Inside, the radio’s prayer –
Rockall. Malin. Dogger. Finisterre.