These last two weeks have decidedly not gone at all well. To fully appreciate this post you have to know three things: I have serious fear of bees. When I get hurt, it is always in the weirdest of ways. Patience is a virtue, but it isn’t one of mine.
Since I was a little kid, I have been deathly afraid of bees. So when I parked at the beach two weeks ago on a beautiful, breezy Sunday morning, planning to spend a Sunday morning as I often do, praying and writing and listening to the waves, I was horrified when three yellow jackets came into the car. They weren’t buzzing around where I could shoo them out an open window. They crawled down between the seats, into my purse and essentially settled in for a lengthy stay. I, on the hand, bailed out of the car barefoot, having kicked off my sandals when I parked. There were scores of angry, aggressive yellow jackets outside the car too. I couldn’t get in the car and I couldn’t stay outside the car. I ended up fleeing down the sidewalk, down a flight of steps and across a rocky beach to escape the little devils. I actually had to call my sister to bring a can of Raid so I could at least get back into my car.
Somehow in my escape, I managed to step wrong or miss a step or step on something. Being in a full-blown panic over the bees, I honestly couldn’t tell you exactly what I did but in the end, I injured my heel and could barely stand to put weight on my foot. So naturally, knowing something was obviously very wrong, I limped around for a week hoping it would just go away. Yeah, denial ain’t just a river in Egypt. The last thing in the world I wanted to do was explain to the family doctor that was I pretty sure I broke my foot running from a nest of angry yellow jackets. The man has already witnessed the time I sprained my knee while dressed up as the Easter Bunny and the time my dog broke my nose so I really, really didn’t want to add this little gem to my file. But after a week, I couldn’t stand the pain anymore and I went to see him. He was kind enough to keep a straight face. While it’s not all out broken, there is a hairline fracture on the heel spur and I’m to stay off my foot for a few weeks until the swelling goes down and I can put weight on it without pain and then we’ll reassess how to treat it. Yes, I, the hopeless klutz, am now on crutches. Yes, this is a disaster in the making. I never appreciated how many steps I take in a day, usually with something in my hands, until I had to use these blasted things. I am a horribly impatient patient.
When I parked at the seawall two weeks ago, I was in a pretty decent place with God. We had stuff to talk about but it was all good. But as I settled into my place and mindset of prayer, all hell broke loose. For most of the following week, every time I tried to pray, the first words out of my mouth were, “What the [expletive] was that?!?!” Okay. Understandable. I was a little shaken and in pain. But now two weeks later, every conversation with God is prefaced with, “I’m still royally pissed off at You…”
The writing I was planning to do that day remains unwritten. And I’ve had a hard time being still. I’m frustrated beyond reason by my sudden, temporary limitation. I try to tell myself to be reasonable. I mean really, what was God supposed to do: put a bubble around my car? Send angels to carry me to safety? Smite the bees? Smiting the bees really would have been my first choice. I don’t know what I expected, but the fact that I came to a quiet place, to keep a standing date and was not only chased from it but wounded in the process really bugs me. (Pun very much intended.) If this had happened anywhere else, would I be as angry? Probably not. Was it that big of a deal in the grand scheme of things? No. And have I dealt with far worse without being such a brat about it? Yes. Is there a lesson in this mess? Probably. And maybe it’s that it’s okay to honestly give God a piece of my mind now and then, even if it’s over stupid little stuff.