Lord, you were there and heard when the doctors gave me the diagnosis, and admitted that their pills were only going to trim the burden by a little bit. And I really don’t want to spend my last years of life in a groggy fog of anesthesia so thick that I can’t focus on my companionship with you. But when my pain is this bad – all the time – I don’t know what to do.
Right now I’ll take anything . . . any bit of peace, of release, of heavenly respite you can give me. I trust in your goodness, and I know you love me. I know there’s some universal reason why it’s not my turn to get a sparkling, permanent miracle. And that’s okay. But it feels like I’m right at the limit of what I can endure, and that I really need at least some measure of that “way of escape” you’ve promised me.
In Jesus’ name, Amen!
David B. Smith writes from Southern California.
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