I'm wearing my favorite night shirt as I prepare to climb in bed. It's the hole-iest pajama top I own — white, oversized cotton with long, holey sleeves, a bright red Adidas logo across the chest, and a holey hood I wear when the weather dips below 65-degrees — but it's my favorite because it used to be my dad's.
My dad is broad and muscular, with big biceps I liked to wrap my hands around when I was a little girl. "Flex, Daddy, flex!" I'd exclaim as I gripped his arm. I always giggled with delight when I felt his rubbery muscles turn to steel.
I feel small tonight in his big, cotton shirt.
And actually, I feel small in lots of ways tonight. Tomorrow I'll undergo a significant and unexpected medical test to explore potential causes for new symptoms, and I feel overwhelmed by the enormity of my disease. It towers menacingly and threatens to devour, and on the days it's especially hard for me to be a warrior, I feel like a tender little morsel.
And last week I discovered one of my dearest friends will be moving 5,000 miles across the ocean, and though I got three messages last month from girlfriends I met when I traveled to Spain, the world doesn't feel small today. It feels enormous. And I feel tiny and frail, and I wonder if I'll ever have the health to fly 5,000 miles across the globe to visit my dear friend.
And the papers to grade are piled high, and the PhD assignments feel far too long, and my body has been especially unhappy the last few days, and life's injustices and inconveniences are so invasive, and there is not enough of me to carry all this . . . and I do not like feeling so small.
But the smallness I feel in my dad's shirt? It is good. It is good because it reminds me I have a big, strong dad who loves me.
Yesterday I went on an easy walk down the street. I drank in the jasmine and stopped to take a photo of my neighbor's plumeria bush, its white petaled stars forming perfumed constellations in the fading light. But most of the time I looked up at the sky. Its cathedral dome glowed with layers of dusky rose, lavender, and indigo. And I'm wondering, as my eyelids grow heavy with sleep, if inhabiting this great big cathedral-planet is a taste of what it might be like to wear God's shirt, its vastness reminding us of how small we are, yet teaching us that we have a big, strong Father.
I'm imagining God the Father sitting with me tonight as I look toward tomorrow's test. The Son and Spirit are here too, praying, advocating on my behalf. And I'm wondering if you would join us in prayer about my test tomorrow. Would you pray for peace for me, wise doctors, and good test results? I don't think I've ever felt so anxious about test results before, and I covet your prayer support.
Thank you, my friends.
I'm praying for those of you who also feel small tonight. I'm praying, especially, that the bigness of life would remind you that God is biggest of all.
Cheering for you,
Sarah
P.S. This came in the mail this evening:
A dear, wonderful friend who has faithfully prayed for me made this for me. I have it displayed on my piano, across from my princess crown:
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| There's a mirror right above this, and sometimes I put the crown on, look in the mirror, and quote Psalm 103: "Praise the Lord...who redeems your life from the pit, crowns you with love and compassion, and satisfies your years with good things." |
Isn't the prayer on this canvas beautiful?
I've been praying it throughout the evening. And look at the reminder at the bottom. Some days I really do need reminding.
Thank you, sweet Ann; this is such a treasure.
© by scj