You would think that there would be plenty of time for profound thought while sitting in the recliner, or the hammock, or the bed, or...anyway, I sit a majority of time lately. But I have to tell you that the number one thought that goes through my mind as I sit and sit and sit and sit:
Man, I can feel my butt spreading.
While my facebook wall blew up in jubilant celebration and hilarity for this summer's colonoscopy (and again for the surgery that led me to this chair), I can't actually write a blog about the breadth of my backside.
What I can talk about is how very dreadfully I take my stamina and ability to get through every day so very much for granted that it's shameful and most definitely reeks of pride. I'll simply say it: I've been proud of living a busy, active, mostly organized, life. I like waking up early and hitting the ground running (literally). I like to be the one who is in control of what happens, how it happens, what we're eating while it happens, and cleaning up after the happening. This is unconsciously how I have been plowing through life. Apparently for a very long time.
Until twelve days ago.
I wasn't really sad about having a hysterectomy for several reasons (sorry if this is too personal, I'll try to keep it clean). First of all, the baby factory is very much closed. I didn't mourn that for even a moment. Secondly, things in the uterine arena have been very much out of control for the last six months or more, and of course, we've established how much I like control. What I didn't consider too deeply was the road I would walk from Before Hysterectomy to As Active as I was Before Since Hysterectomy.
It's been frustrating.
Then I consider the fact that most of what I am dealing with is at worst, a minor inconvenience. I consider that my situation is absolutely temporary and that every day I get back strength and stamina by literal leaps and bounds. I realize that I have permanent assistance around the clock in the form of my family, and a physical and emotional support system that has gone beyond what I imagined I would need while I grump about from the confines of this chair.
I've been both blind and ungrateful for something I am in no way owed.
This is a humbling realization.
What I realized recently is that every time God plans to grow compassion in me, it first requires being quite brutally humbled. He's faithful to continue planting it, but man-oh-man is it ever daunting to lay down your pride and even for a moment attempt to place yourself in another person's circumstances.
I suppose if I stop thinking about my butt long enough, I should spend some time thanking the Creator for thirty-nine years of almost uninterrupted control over my own body. For the working, beautiful bodies of my children which I neither planned nor formed. For a husband who has the talents and physical abilities to take care of all of us, and even do double duty on the occasions when I can't handle the things that normally fall under my purview.
I don't intend to sound preachy to anyone but myself. This body I've been given, it's a gift. An amazing gift even with all its flaws and stretchmarks and scars. It lets me do more than I usually recognize, and Lord willing, it has decades more of giving to enjoy.
I hope not to take a single day for granted.