An early start after a rare good night’s sleep, and I’m feeling game enough to pound that pavement to the shops for another load of groceries that I know is going to take more out of me than it probably puts back in. The streets are dead quiet. They should be – it’s only after 5.30 in the morning. The darkness hides my black-clad form partially, the rest of the job achieved by the many overhanging trees and street-side shrubs that form an efficient archway for pedestrians, like an entryway to a suburban church.
It’s been nearly three months now in my new place, and I wish I could say that my life is taking off. I wish, even more, that I could say that it has taken off. But shortly after moving in, I began to develop a weakness and a stiffness that I can only put down to a combination of bad furniture and overabundance of paint fumes and other VOCs, things which may not cause a problem for most people but which can be a real pain in the lower back for those of us suffering from chronic inflammatory response syndrome, or CIRS, brought on by living in sick houses – houses riddled with toxic mould.
It’s been over a year now that I’ve been out of my mould-infested abode and I’m still suffering. My gut is still distended; my bowels are still disrupted; my muscles are still stiff and weak; and my teeth and bones still feel like brittle chalk. I’ve been putting up with these symptoms for about seven years. I even wrote a book. But today, trudging to the shops, it kind of reached a bit of a breaking point.
Thing is, everything looked so beautiful. The air was cool and invigorating. I hadn’t been out of the house for days thanks to a lower back flare-up, and now I realised just how much I had missed seeing everything out there: the lovely homes, the hedges, the whispering trees, the cobbled lanes, the flowers, the cheery neon signs … and the funky warehouse buildings hosting dance studios and gyms.
One of those gyms opens early. Walking past it, I look in and see people about their workouts, the warm lighting pouring out onto the street. They all look so strong and fit. I walk past, as I usually do, trying to remember the items on my mental shopping list.
At the register, I wish I had more to say to the lovely lady with the pretty amber teardrop earrings serving me. But I’m not in the best mood, as I’m contemplating the three full bags of groceries I’ve got to carry home as she rings them up. I cross the road without waiting for the green man and make for the street that will take me home, not wanting to dally. There are a few people about, some out for their morning walk, jumpers tied around their waists, others looking like they’re hunting for a new spot where they can put down all their worldly possessions without being bothered by cops. The morning is dull under a sleepy, grey sky.
As I walk home, I pass a lovely doorway to a trendy home, one of the ones that has a cool palm tree out the front. It is compact but perfect. As I walk along, I don’t know where it comes from, but a little prayer starts speaking from inside me. I ask God to bless the inhabitants of this cute home. Then I recall Jesus’s words: ‘He who has will be given even more, and he will have an over-abundance.’
Is that how it works? When you’re blessed, do you receive more blessings from those who admire the blessing you already have, and then even more from yet others, until you’re super-abundantly blessed?
The voice inside me won’t quit. It prays on. Now I find myself asking the most ridiculous thing. I am asking God to give me superhuman strength, so that I can not only carry home my groceries, but I can do lots more, without breaking a sweat. I am panting and sticky inside my track top, and the handles of the grocery bags are doing their knuckle-cutting thing, and they’re not even plastic but those cloth ones. The voice inside me is earnest. It is trying to get God’s attention.
Please give me superhuman strength. Make me so strong the world will know it must come from you. I can’t do this on my own. You said anything I pray in your name, Jesus, you will do for me. So please give me superhuman strength. Let it inspire the world. Let it ignite the faith of Christians. And for all those who have no faith, let it make them seriously consider their future. I ask this in your precious name, Jesus.
I look back in at the gym, which is now in full swing, people leaping onto blocks and effortlessly manipulating body parts and equipment.
Amen.
For the rest of the walk home, I feel like I have a powerful wind at my back. The ground slips away beneath me at twice the speed. I decide to switch grocery hands every 50 steps and find it helps enormously to keep my stiff knuckles pain-free. Once home, I put away my groceries without any back pain. I even come up with a funny joke to text my dad, who’s been ill lately.
Praise the Lord. He has given me not only sufficient strength for myself but enough to spare so that I can encourage others.
On my own strength, I am nothing. I am less than a decrepit old woman who can’t even turn over in bed without groaning in pain.
With Jesus, I am everything I want to be, and more. With Jesus, I feel no pain, only power. With Jesus, I am a walking miracle.
Praise the Lord.
alitanicholas 