My dad came to stay with me. Two days after my surgery there he was; sent by my grandma who was thrilled I asked her to send him. You know when you have been on your own for so long that having family over for too long can feel like nails grating on a chalkboard? Well, it never got like that. It was a little bumpy the first couple days, but after that it was amazing.

I laugh in retrospect about how much he hustled to keep the house clean in those first days, asking me how I let it get like that. After about 4 days he realized I don’t and how quickly it looks like you didn’t do anything. He commented once after he got the kitchen clean and said “well that should last an hour or two.” I think we ate out that night and squeezed a few more hours out of it. I miss him. I’m glad I had that 1:1 time with him and wish I wasn’t trying to heal. We would have had a lot more fun.

The three weeks he was here felt too short in one aspect, but in regards to healing it’s felt like an eternity. I have largely survived the first week without any help except the kids and I think we are doing rather well! But am I really only 4 weeks post-op tomorrow? *sigh*

I don’t get to walk again until the 29th and I know that sounds whiny and I should be grateful, but my body is getting impatient. Muscles in my leg are twitching bad and at night I wake myself up trying to stretch my leg and stop myself, concerned I would hurt myself. Being up for too long still causes swelling but at least the super crazy itching has subsided. I gave myself a blister scratching too hard! Showering is hard, I finally figured out how to get in and out of my shower without hopping in on one foot or crawling. I kept having this thought of slipping and falling and calling 911 and wondering how I would get along with stitches up the crack of my tushy. So I put my knee on the toilet seat and pivot around so I can put my “Really Useful Leg” in the shower first and then slowly standing up.

I’m often amazed at how vulnerable we are when we are physically broken. How susceptible we are to accidents and rogue circumstances. Seems like no matter how careful I am things find me! Like just doing my thing and things are falling over on me, or are suddenly in my way…three times Jeremiah left his shirt and sweater in my path in the SAME PLACE all three times. Really dude??

But really, among all of this I feel quiet. People keep reaching out to me and I can’t seem to find anything to say. My normally encouraging self can’t seem to come up with much to say. Quiet. I don’t feel sad (🤔 do I feel sad? Hmm nah) but just quiet. I’ve been reading up on and watching/listening to a bunch of Q stuff, working, playing Skylanders and trying to keep the house semi decent and kids fed. I’m living in stretchy pants and loose T-shirts and it’s a miracle I haven’t gained a bunch of weight.

But still quiet. In the quiet recesses of my mind, I want to fade away. I don’t know why, and I feel bad for the many people I love as well as my dream ministry but, I feel like Cinderella in her room. At the point where she knows she can go to the ball but has just been overloaded with so much work that she knows there’s no way she will get to go because she doesn’t have a dress that’s sufficient. It’s that place where most of us sit there and think…I could try- but what’s the point. And so we sit there trying to make it all pan out in our head and it just doesn’t.

So I’m quiet. Thinking. Lost in thought. Listening for the Lord to speak to me. Pensive.

Forgive me for my silence.