Night Pain

The middle of the night. I am deep in the harbour of sleep. Pain crashes through the barriers, attacks, awakens me. I moan soft in the dark, toss and turn, reach down and turn on the heating pad. The warmth, sweet warmth offers no respite, no relief. I am drenched in the wave of pain. Drowning in its grip. It is merciless and I recoil from it.

I pull my legs up to my chest, furl into myself. It does not help. I press pillow between my legs to cushion the blow of pain relentlessly twisting my insides. I roll over to my stomach, go into Child's Pose, here too, no lifting, no fading of pain.

I gasp out to husband the pain I am in. Sleepily, lovingly, he mutters words, I'm so sorry he says. The words are kind and I wish words could eradicate this agony. But they cannot.

Hours pass, sleep has fled. I am utterly wretched. Eventually, thankfully, the pain crests, rolls away, its sharpness no longer pressing into me. I rest awhile.

When I awake to day I am exhausted, worn. This day is to me, for me, now lost.

I come downstairs, take the dog out, eat something. Daughter comes down. We greet the day. Yet, I am too tired, too pain-wracked to engage.

I wander upstairs, crawl, weary-like back into my bed. This place that offered no refuge last night, this softness, this warmth I retreat to, burrow deep, drift away.

Day wends it way. It darkens early. We put the clocks back last night. It is Sunday and it feels strange. No worship. No words. No friends to hug. No stories to listen to. Yet, this is my day. Another day will come and I will again “do” the day.

Oldest child, son, sleeps the day. For him the night is day. This saddens me.

Husband and daughter pass the day together, play together, their bond strengthens today. And this heartens me.

Another Sunday, we will together go, worship, sing, pray. Really, this we can do every day. Sleep-swept or rest-risen. We can worship.

I think back the day just passed in this quiet as now I write.

Every day, God-given. Whether sun-soaked or rain-drenched. Whether pain-filled, and empty of activity. Whether, busy and productive.

Every. Single. Day. God. Gives.

Every. Day. He Gives Grace....

Every. Single. Day.

Nov 6 ,2011