Gilt and Honey and Sweat

Katy spoke on Monday about the books that are a slow read. I can imagine our beloved Katy curled up in some bohemian-looking corner lovingly turning the pages of a leather-bound book with gilt edges, rolling words around in her mind, caressing them with a fingertip, trying phrases out on her tongue.

Patti spoke of books that are good company. Patti is alpine breezes and fresh-scrubbed honesty. She would want books--indeed, she writes books-- that are strong and sweet, like dark honey with flecks of habanero in it.

Can I be Patti-honest here? I can’t bear to read right now. I finished a literately-written nonfiction May 1 and haven’t written much of anything since. Just lists and medical notes. My life changed so overtly on December 1 when my husband lost consciousness, not to return to us with his mind functioning correctly until the end of April, and coming back to our home in an electric wheelchair after five months, one week and one day, that reading is a luxury I don’t have. My Kindle sits by my bedside but I don’t turn it on. I lived without the Internet for over a week and hardly noticed. We moved last weekend and I haven’t unpacked a single book except those in the boxes with other stuff I needed to get to.

I live with sweat (my own—I know that’s not very lovely but it’s real) and the constant cool squirt of adrenaline in my gut anticipating the possible accident with lifts and ramps and gravity; and with pharmaceuticals in hourly boxes. Taking care of a quadriplegic is hard work, for me and for the professionals who come to our home to help me.  (Just two days ago I leaned panting over the hospital bed and met the eyes of the health care aide who had helped me with a harrowing transfer from wheelchair to sling to shower chair. She was panting too, and she's forty years younger than I. We looked at each other and we understood, we understood.)

Now, I don’t want sympathy, I’m just reporting in.

There have been times in my life when I have suffered with my own much-lesser health conditions, the kind that robbed me of sleep. I remember praying during those times, thanking God for the fellowship of pain, the heritage that is passed through our genes, the common denominator if you live long enough. People have suffered from the beginning of time. If hurting has no other immediate purpose, it can give us a connection with other sufferers.

I am praying that same prayer now. I could not possibly be the only lover of written words who can hardly bear their intimacy, at least for a season. I have no time nor patience for the slow read (a book would surely take me years to finish) nor the companionship of other worlds. Mine is too real.

I am not complaining because my church, friends and family have sacrificed enormously, time and money and resources, to keep me alive and functioning so I can keep someone else alive and functioning. I have been pampered in a maelstrom.

But I serve an economical God. Nothing He owns does He waste. Surely He will maximize this numbness, give this author the ability to create the thoughtful words that will speak to others like me. 

When they get ready to read again.