Weakness

This post is the follow-up to why my husband forced me to watch an instructional video on how to wield a knife.

Several nights ago, like an idiot, I sliced a chunk of my finger with a very sharp kitchen knife.  In a rush, I quickly rinsed it, applied pressure and then strapped two band aids on - tight.  Truth be told, it freaked me out a bit and I didn't want to look too closely.


When I went to bed, my finger began to throb, so much so that I couldn't sleep and I began to worry.  Finally, after a few hours of increasing pain, tossing, and watching infomercials, I had the brilliant idea that just maybe the band aids were too tight and were making it hurt more than the actual wound.

Gingerly, with trepidation, I began to unwind the sticky plastic and stopped.  It hurt and I was scared.  The band aid was stuck to the bloody patch and I didn't want to tear it off.  I began to feel woozy and crazy visions came into my head of me passing out in the kitchen, whacking my head on the glass table and my family finding me on the freezing linoleum in the morning.
I crawled up the stairs, woke my confused husband who helped me loosen the band aid enough to relieve the pressure.  He brought me a glass of orange juice to stop my wooziness and said a prayer for his very weird wife. 
I immediately fell into a deep sleep.


Next morning dawned and all went off to school but youngest boy, who was not feeling quite ready to enter the fray.  I was still scared about my finger, wondering if I should make the effort to go to doctor (who is far way), wondering if I'm being a baby, still feeling weak in the knees.
As I struggled and tried to make myself pull off this stinking band aid (what is wrong with me?  I've never been an afraid-of-blood type!  I birthed four babies without pain medication, for crying out loud!!), I whimpered and wished for someone to make it better.
My sons leaned over me and said, "I'll pray for ya, Mom."  
He prayed an earnest 8-year-old prayer and then said, "Mom!  I'll cheer you up!  I'll find you some Chuck Norris jokes!"

As he read jokes to me from the next room, I called husband, all whimpery and pathetic.  He finally asked, "How can I help you with this?"
I burst into tears, "I just want someone to take care of me, but I know I have to do this myself!"  As I wept, I felt a little boy's hand on my shoulder and heard him sniffle with me.


I'm now struck by how I DON'T have to do it myself.  God had given me this son, this funny, dramatic son, to encourage me this very morning.  God knew I could use a joke, a prayer, a little soft hand on my shoulder.  Those things may not strengthen my quaking knees and my bloody finger, but this company and this comfort in my weakness can help my heart, can remind me that God is HERE.

God is not like me.  He is not saying to the weak, "You are fine; get over it.  Rip off the darn band aid."  
He uses my weakness to show me His kindness, His comfort, His presence, His lowliness. He uses a young son to minister to the mama; He kindly shows me that my strength is wrongly perceived, an illusion.
The lesson is painful, just like ripping off the band aid.  My finger is now almost healed;  I know I'll be learning about my weakness til I'm Home.