In Only a Moment

Crash, crunch echoed through our small living room as I watched the ornate burgundy saucer shatter into 4 large pieces and a thousand splinters more. 

What is wrong with me? I sat down helplessly on the gray blue sofa, tears immediately appearing. Two days ago I broke the glass charcoal bottle and now this. I wasn't usually this clumsy. Was it because I was under a lot of stress lately? I'm so sorry, I'm really so sorry. 

My husband reassured me that he could fix the saucer and not to worry about it. His mother had sent us a set of 6 the year before when his sister had gone home for the summer. I'd carefully placed them in a place of honour in the cupboard and brought them out each time we had a cup of tea or hot chocolate. They had survived tea around the bonfire and countless trips from the kitchen to the living room, and now this. 

I was reaching for the bag of nuts to refill my bowl when it happened. It was movie time and we were having our usual snack of the evening, this time it was mixed nuts a friend had so kindly given us when they dropped by to visit and pray for my sister-in-law who was still in the hospital. After our first round, I wanted a few more nuts but the bag was on the other side of the coffee table. As I grabbed it, the bag swung out, pushing the small saucer right off the table and onto the cream tile floor. It never had a chance. 

Just like she never had a chance.  

Two days later, my husband sat down at the kitchen table, heavy duty glue in one hand and the broken saucer in the other. We'd retrieved the large pieces and found a couple more fragments and he set about to try to patch them together. I remembered the story of the mended teapot my friend who'd lived in Pakistan wrote about. The teapot that was purposely broken, then fit back together with metal staples that was then sold as a thing of beauty. Would the glue do the trick?

Ten minutes later, after rearranging and holding the pieces together, my husband stared at his attempt to fix it. There was a nicked edge whose piece we could not find though we had searched under the sofa, coffee table, and bookshelf. The saucer was so delicate that the glue ended up pushing the pieces apart instead of holding them tightly together. Finally, he admitted defeat. It won't work, he said. Let's throw it away and buy another one. 

I sat with that saucer in my mind. Like the saucer, my sister-in-law had shattered in large pieces with fragments scattered about. She was missing a piece of her that, like the sauce, wasn't essential to holding her together but now marred her internal appearance. Here was where the resemblance ended, however. 

Though the saucer could not be repaired, she could. I held on to the promise of Matthew 8:2 when a man with a serious disease came to Jesus and asked to be healed. If You are willing. . .he had pleaded with the only Healer he had hope in. 

Jesus' response? 

He reached out with His hand, touched the man, and said I am willing. And in that moment, instantly, the man was healed. 

My husband could not wave a magic wand and instantly restore the broken saucer to its original perfection. Similarly, doctors could not perform a few surgeries, administer some medications, and my sister-in-law would be walking and talking and breathing like before. 

But there is a promise. And there is hope. Whether this promise will be realized in this life, we as yet do not know. But we can hold on to the knowledge that Jesus is willing for her to be healed. And one day, in a moment, in a twinkling of an eye, He will reach forth and then, then she will be restored. To perfection. Forever.  

I close my eyes and I can see, the numbers march incessantly

1 avocado, 35,000
1 carton of milk, 37,500
1 package of cheese slices 39,900
1 bag of tomatoes, 62,500

I scanned the receipt, checking and rechecking the prices to make sure we were not paying more than we should for the paltry items sitting in the grocery cart. The cheapest fruit, other than oranges, was 52,000 for a kilo so we'd put 4 round-top peaches and 4 hard nectarines into a plastic bag and headed to the scales to weigh and price them. We can eat the apples we still have in the fridge, my husband said sadly. 

But what happens when we finish eating the stores of food we have? I wondered. Two years ago, we'd started the dance of stocking up. We'd bought up enough rice, pasta, and oil to last us several months. Last summer we'd calculated how much we'd need of all the dry staples and bought what we would need for 6 months. We were still using the oil but once we'd run out of the other staples, we had started to buy only what we needed for the next week or two. Now, everything was so expensive it made no sense to stock up anymore. Our local currency was just enough, if we were careful, to get us through the month with the basics. There were few luxuries. I calculated and recalculated item prices constantly, my longsuffering husband knowing by now that if I had to buy tissues, I would check whether the 200 pieces or the 300 pieces were cheaper and we were not going anywhere until I had satisfied myself that we were buying the most economical packet of tissues. 

How much is this suitcase in dollars? my husband asked, as he pulled one off the shelf to examine its make and quality. I pulled out my every ready smartphone and opened up the calculator app, only to stare at it without understanding. I don't know, I don't know how much the dollar is right now and I really don't care I said, as I closed my phone and headed to the personal hygiene section. 

A few minutes later, I was calculating tins of chickpeas to see which ones were cheaper when checking the drained weight. My husband spotted a good deal, but I remembered throwing out several of those tins when we'd last bought them because they were not preserved well. I reached for the next cheapest option. 

By the time we'd reached the bread section, my patience had run out. I'd been irritated from the moment I'd walked into the mall, as my husband, trying to cheer me up, had suggested we walk around the mall. There were too many people, most of them not wearing masks and breathing everywhere, and they were making too much noise. I stared straight ahead as we walked, wishing the time to pass quickly so we could get to the store and make our purchases. I hated the mask; it was too tight and in the summer heat it made it harder to breathe on top of making my face all sweaty. 

The cashier rang up our purchases agonizingly slowly, one by one. I'd never seen a slower cashier but I understood why the young man was not moving any faster. He, like me, had given up on life. He'd lost hope and was now simply existing. Why bother to be quick? It wouldn't change anything and it was probably taking all his energy just to do the basics. I wanted to say something encouraging but even I had run out of the will to perform. 

We went to the next grocery store. This one was quieter and cooler but the sticker shock still ran deep. I found my favourite granola bars on sale and put 10 of them in the basket. Some small consolation for the impossible task we were having to face. Again, no bread. 

On the way home, we spotted a bakery. Let's try there and see if they have bread, I suggested. My husband parked in front of a little business that was closed and we crossed the not-so-busy two-way street. Inside, we found bags of bread so fresh, the steam had just escaped the pillowy white loaves. The bakery had their own ovens and was still pumping out loaves in preparation for the next morning. We picked up 2 bags and headed to the counter where I noticed another man buying 3 bags. At least there was no limit on bread today. 

Our last stop was at a minimart where I'd picked out two ice cream sandwiches from the ice chest. Half vanilla and half chocolate sandwiched between the perfect chocolate crust, the sweet treat cheered us up as we drove the last few minutes home. 

We made it, I sighed inwardly as we pulled into the driveway, the neighbors' dog barking incessantly at our arrival. We made it for another week. I dreaded the thought of repeating it all over again a week later but knew that for now, at least, we had what we needed and wouldn't have to brave traffic again for any missing items. We would have boiled fava beans for a treat and I would make freshly squeezed orange juice from the leftover oranges in the fridge. 

But how much longer can this go on for? I wondered. How much longer can I manage this? 

I'm tired. 

How are you doing, really?

I’m angry, grumped out of my mouth as I’d stomped about the kitchen. We were cooking up a huge pot of dolmas but the water level was a bit too high so it was constantly bubbling over and splattering all around on the stove and floor. In a few hours guests would come over that I’d been putting off for nearly a week already. They wanted to come and pray with us. I understood why but it didn’t make me any happier.

Other people have perfectly clean houses but they also have someone staying home all the time who can cook and clean. They don’t think about these things. They don’t think about how when you’re not feeling well, you don’t have time to clean and tidy. I haven’t had time to myself this week to just sit and relax. Now I have to clean my house so people can come over and visit. So I’m angry.

My patient husband came over and looked at the wet floor. When the food finishes cooking, I can mop it, he said. He started organizing the bits and bobs on the kitchen table, then moved to the lounge. Realizing my grumpy mood wouldn’t change the fact that we would still have to tidy up, I started to help, picking up stray items and ferrying them to a pile on my bedroom dresser.

It looks much better now, doesn’t it? my husband proclaimed. I love you. Don’t be upset; I can help you and we can clean it up fast.

He was right. Together, we managed to make the house somewhat presentable. The day before, I had finally pushed myself to dust the living room and clean the bathroom after work. My husband had vacuumed, washed the steps, and done the dishes. Then we’d made up a batch of dolmas to take over to our friends.

I was wavering between emotions these days. The resident counselor whose small children attended the Cradle Roll Sabbath School class I taught had given me a huge hug afterward class. She’d reminded me that she was there for me professionally if I needed to talk and encouraged me to take care of my physical health to prepare for whatever lay ahead mentally and emotionally. I thanked her, knowing I didn’t need to talk yet but grateful she was there in case the worst happened. I was thankful for people who cared but at the same time I quickly got angry when it felt like they were being too intrusive.

I’m learning how to help others in similar situations, I told my husband as we lay on our adjoining sofas, relaxing at the end of a long uncertain week. Send them a message to tell them you’re praying for them, drop off an easy to eat dish and maybe give them a bit of money to help, give them a hug, let them know you’re there in case they need anything, and then Leave Them Alone. He nodded in agreement.

We came from vastly different backgrounds when it came to grief and loss in our cultures. His culture embraced the community, people coming together, sitting with you, driving hours to visit with you even if they were not immediate family or close family friends. In times of crisis, he knew he could count on so many people rallying together to help with food, money, a place to stay or any other number of things as the network expanded around the world.

I, on the other hand, while growing up in the same region as his, had not assimilated that part of the culture to the same extent as it came naturally to him. I swayed European for sure, valuing the spaces, politeness and reserve, calling ahead to make sure it was convenient to drop by. Support yes, but in a dignified demure manner, offered as needed but never pushed on the person.

So now, as we waited for news of my sister-in-law who still lay in critical condition in the hospital, we welcomed the community’s support but processed it in different ways. At first, I was thankful for the messages as each one signified another prayer to God to spare my sister-in-law’s life. They distracted me from dealing with the reality that it was a very serious situation and helped me feel a little less helpless. As I shared the oh-so-heavy burden with others, it didn’t seem so terrible to carry anymore.

As soon as I heard anything, I would send out updates via WhatsApp to the 110 or more people in my contact list. After the first few days, though, there were no more immediate updates. Now it was a matter of assessment and waiting. They didn’t understand that, however. Messages started to bombard me now at all hours of the day. How is she? Any updates? The any updates? part really got to me. I felt like I was their live social media feed, constantly being refreshed with the swipe of a thumb, for the latest news. And.I.Didn’t.Have.Any.News. I started to regret having informed so many people, though I knew it was important to activate prayer chains around the world to come together and intercede for my sister-in-law. But I didn’t know how to handle the barrage. So finally I told them.

I don’t have anything new for today. Of course I will send updates when we have updates available. But I am getting messages constantly asking me for updates and it becomes overwhelming to try to answer everyone. It makes me feel like I am people’s live Instagram feed and I cannot give information I don’t have. I understand everything wants to help and I really appreciate it. When we know anything significant, we will share. The best we can all help right now is to continue to pray for her. Thank you so much for your prayers.

I read and re-read my message, then pressed Send. To each of the people I’d been sending updates to. Some answered affirming my message and saying they would continue praying. Others respectfully read the message and didn’t respond. And finally the questions stopped coming. On WhatsApp.

They didn’t stop in-person though. Each day in the office, people would pass me, stop and ask how my sister-in-law was doing. Most of them were people in the WhatsApp group where I had sent the message, so it baffled me that it did not register that asking in-person was akin to asking via a message. I sighed inwardly, put on an appropriately somber face, and replied, Nothing new. Please continue to pray for her. Thank you for asking.

When they asked, How are you doing? I replied, Fine, thank you, or alternated with, I’m doing good, thanks. What else was I supposed to say? I was never going to say exactly how I felt, primarily angry that they were trying to invade into my world by asking questions as if they cared when they hadn’t cared before. I couldn’t cry on demand; I’d done my crying in private but was still operating somewhat in autopilot when it came to being emotional. I was trying to hold on to hope for now, hope that everything would be okay in the end, hope that her lungs would re-inflate, the bleeding in the brain would stop, and she would start breathing on her own again. Everything else could be fixed somehow, ribs mended on their own, a broken hand could be cast, she could live without a spleen. But if I would allow myself to truly feel the panic of the unknown, then I would not be able to function and I had to teach a class, work, clean a house, and feed a husband every day so I didn’t have time to think about how I really felt. So I retreated to the socially acceptable reply of Fine, thank you and hoped those who asked didn’t think I was heartless and cold.

I wondered if I would be angry if nobody asked. If nobody came to visit. If nobody dropped off food. I knew people genuinely wanted to help and realized that, like me many a time before when someone else was going through a difficult time, most probably they didn’t know how best to help. So I tried to be gracious and attribute the best of intentions to them but there were days where I felt like I had run out of patience. Days where the inquiries felt disingenuous at best; where I thought, You barely knew her name and said hello when you passed her on the sidewalk, why are you suddenly so interested in knowing all the details about her now? It felt like they wanted to know simply to satisfy their morbid curiosity.

One woman had asked my husband a question about my sister-in-law’s condition and then walked away before he had even had the chance to formulate an answer. When she returned, he said, Why did you leave before I answered the question? And she apologized, mumbling something about how busy she was, said I can listen now as she looked down, eyes glued to her phone, thumbs texting furiously. He finished his business and left, asking me later, Why do people even ask if they don’t want to know? He was right.

I realized I would have to decide on a standard answer and use that every time somebody asked how my sister-in-law was doing. An answer that would not invite new questions but would communicate enough so that people felt satisfied and would not insist more.

She’s still in the hospital in the same condition. We’re just waiting to see what happens.

It worked. I accepted that every day I would see one, or 6, or 8 people who would ask me how she was doing. I would have to answer them. But I would not have to do more than give a simple answer. It was all I could handle and it was enough for now. We would deal with the next hurdle when it came.

How to be present

We would like to come and pray with you. Let us know when is a good time to stop by, a friend texted. I smiled at their thoughtfulness. They knew we were caught up in the middle of a difficult time and, while wanting to support us, were understanding of our need for space to do what needed to be done. 

I will let you know when it's a good time, thanks so much for reaching out, I replied. As my sister-in-law continued to lie unconscious in the hospital, and the prayers, messages, and food poured in, I started to see a pattern and understand more about how to support others in their time of difficulty. So, for everyone's convenience, I decided to blog about it. 

What not to do when someone is going through a difficult time

• Don't show up unannounced unless you are a pastor. The family is most likely trying to coordinate a million and one details, depending on the situation, and having a steady flow of visitors coming through will tire them out and take their focus off helping the one who is in critical condition. 
• Don't stay long when you visit. 30 minutes is a good length of time. Any longer and again, you distract them as they are trying to answer calls and decide what is best for their loved one. 
• Don't share stories of other people you know who were in similar situations and died. That is super discouraging. If you haven't dealt with your own issues of loss, go talk to a counselor; don't burden a family already upset with your personal problems. 
• Don't tell them, This is a test from God as if that is supposed to make them feel better. They will more likely end up resenting God for the bad situation or you for trying to make God out to be a bad Being when all blame for evil rests rightly on the devil. 
• Don't message them one or multiple times a day asking, Is there any update? You may think you are showing your concern but the family are not your personal Instagram feed, providing updates in real-time each time you refresh the page. Just because we live in an instant world does not mean that life happens instantly. Especially in critical medical cases, some decisions have to be thought through carefully with all their implications and constant hounding of messages asking to be updated just frustrate those who are providing the updates. They will update you when and if they are able. 
• At the same time, don't ask them in-person the same question, as if every time you see them there will be something new to report. Say hello, give them an appropriate hug or handshake, remind them you are praying for them, pause appropriately for them to share if they want to, and if they are silent, take your leave. 
• Don't say, Oh, I cannot imagine how you are feeling right now. This must be so difficult for you. If you cannot imagine it, telling them that won't make them feel better. On the contrary, it will seem as if you are trying to put the focus on yourself and they will end up resenting you. Remember, they are operating with limited emotional supplies right now as they have to be strong for other family members. Instead, try saying something like, You are being very strong but if you need a listening ear, I am here for you. Or, You are doing an amazing job supporting your spouse during this difficult time. 
• Don't say, Oh, I wanted to stop by but I was busy doing x,y,z. This sounds like everything else is a priority over supporting the family who is going through a difficult time. Simply say, I'm thinking of you and praying for you. Would tomorrow afternoon be a good time to stop by?
• Don't tell them about your personal drama that you are going through right now. You probably have more than 1 friend other than the family, so talk to someone else if you need to talk. This is not the time to focus on your petty insecurities. Also, don't share random gossip or talk about topics that seem trite unless the person introduces the topic to distract themselves. If you initiate it, you will sound insensitive and uncaring, even if you mean well. You are not Dory; you can keep your attention on the one who is going through a difficult time for more than 15 seconds. 

Do try to do these things

• Give them a hug and say, I am here for you. If it's appropriate, remind them how much you love them. 
• Drop off a bowl of re-heatable food or salad. Healthy options are welcome as the family may not feel like cooking or have time to go grocery shopping. Don't worry about cooking something fancy; a simple plate of beans and rice is just fine. 
• Ask if there are any errands you can run for them. Maybe they didn't get a chance to pick up their dry cleaners or they are out of bread. 
• Send a message saying, We would love to come and visit and pray with you. When is good for you? This lets the family know you are there for them and, when they have some free time, they will be happy to invite you over. Don't worry if it takes them some time to reply; they know you are there and will let you know when it is good to visit. 
• Share some good memories about the person who is in critical condition. A funny story, a special moment, a deep spiritual interaction, all serve to either lighten the mood or encourage the family that the person is being remembered and they mattered to you. 
• Speak about the person in the present tense. Unless someone has passed away, it is insensitive to speak about them as if they have already died. Using the present tense helps the family to keep hope alive, rather than feeling like they should start grieving a death prematurely. 
• Share photos of the person with the family or post them on social media if appropriate. Seeing the photos will cheer them up immensely and they will probably save those photos to look at over and over during the difficult time. 
• Talk about random things here and there that are interesting or funny. These serve to break up the somberness of it all and help the family to shift their mood for a time away from the adrenaline of caring for the sick person. 

Keep Fighting, Sweet One, Keep Fighting

That may be a test from God! Keep on believing His will read the text message in my messaging app. I stared at the phone. My sister-in-law was lying in a hospital bed in the ICU, fighting for her life after a serious car accident that totaled the car, left the driver dead, and seriously injured another passenger in the car. She was unconscious, had lost her spleen, had broken ribs and collapsed lungs, fluid around the heart and lungs, a broken shoulder and arm, and bleeding on the brain. On the second day, the doctor had said he couldn't guarantee she would make it past the next hour and, after a specialist came to examine her in the small town hospital she was in, the attending suggested they sign the papers to take her off the ventilator. 

It was then, after I'd sent out the umpteenth update to family and friends, keeping them informed in real time of the battle my sister-in-law was going through for her life, that I'd received this message from one of her friends. 

My reply was swift and curt. 

I don't believe God gives us bad things to test us. That is wrong Theology and not encouraging.

The other person fell silent. I continued to send updates to everyone except for them. 

It all seemed very unreal. Just two days before she had brought her little babysitting charge over to the house in the morning, on my day off, and we had enjoyed spending time with Seder. I taught him in Sabbath School so he already knew me, and when my husband brought out the puppet with the moustache that matched his own, the toddler laughed in glee. My husband leaned down to his level and said, moustache! and Seder tentatively reached out with both hands to touch the ends of my husband's moustache. 

That afternoon, she went down to babysit Seder during his nap and I headed to town to pick up her PCR test result so she could have a printed copy when she traveled. Restless, I decided to stop by the grocery store to pick up a couple of items and ended up buying groceries for a week, even though I knew we would be going to town on Friday for the regular shop. 

After she'd packed, we'd lugged her duffel suitcase up the back steps to the car. My husband, frustrated that she was going home against his advice, didn't come with us to the airport. He's not happy with me, she said sadly as I dodged minivans on the road. I didn't know what to say. They were both right. He for not wanting her to spend money she didn't have on a ticket home and she for wanting to see her mom after a difficult and depressing school year. Her friend was getting engaged and she wanted to be at the party. 3 months was a very long summer to while away, even if Seder was really cute and an easy child to babysit. 

We pulled up next to a luggage cart by the curb. She put her backpack and purse on the cart while she hurried to help me lift the duffel suitcase out of the trunk. I briefly noticed her purse left unattended and wanted to say, be careful, don't leave your purse alone like that, someone could take it, but didn't. 

I'll miss you, she said unexpectedly, as I gave her a hug goodbye. It was uncharacteristic of her to be so expressive emotionally. She was a quiet reserved person around me most of the time but we had been growing closer this past year. I'd started giving her a hug every time I saw her, between classes or if she came over to our house, and she had gotten accustomed to it and now moved forward expectantly when she saw me. I'll miss you too! I replied. 

You're sure you have your passport? I repeated for the second time. She laughed, patted her beige purse, and replied, Yes, I do. 

Okay, then. Go to the second door because usually the first door is closed. When you go in, turn right and go straight and you can see through the window, see? There is the place when you get in line. There's nobody there now so it will be easy for you. Send a message when you arrive safely, okay?

She nodded, then turned her luggage cart around and started pushing. I got into the car, fiddling with the entertainment system til I found a good radio station and then started pulling out. I peered inside as I passed the doors but didn't see her. 

22 hours later, I was sitting in the conference room at work, rechecking details on the graduation bulletin we were working on for the weekend. The last graduate had picked up their regalia and I was tired from a long day. I checked my phone and noticed several missed calls from my husband. I pressed redial. 

She's in the hospital. She was in a bad car accident. The car flipped over and burst into flames and the driver died, tumbled out as I could hear a slight panic in his voice. 

I am coming home, I'll be there soon. I said as reassuringly as I could. I stopped by my boss's office to let him know what had happened. He prayed with me, then, as I left the building, I saw the chaplain talking to another pastor. They also prayed with me. I hurried up the 174 steps and walked home as fast as I could. 

The next few days were a blur. That first night we didn't sleep properly. A thoughtful friend dropped by with watermelon; I'd prepared some for us to eat and at the last minute I'd switched bowls to give him the one with the nicest pieces. He'd enjoyed the snack—his second meal for the day—and I'd ended up with a bout of food poisoning. In between using the bathroom and answering calls from concerned family and friends, neither of us had gotten good sleep. The second night was better, though, and we could rest for an interrupted period of time. 

People came and went. Messages bombarded my phone. By Sunday, I'd turned off my notifications on one app. I communicated with my family and best friend through two other apps so I didn't need to be on that one. I was weary. Weary of it all. I couldn't even imagine how my husband felt as he coordinated everything from afar and gave the best advice he could. The tears came and went as we pictured her broken body lying in the hospital bed. 

As I sat for a quiet moment amidst the maelstrom of it all, a verse came to mind. 

I remain confident of this: I will see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living. ~Psalm 27:13

I held on to that promise tightly. I didn't know what would happen in the next hours, days or even weeks. I didn't know if my sister-in-law would be able to get the emergency care she needed in time or if the injuries to her brain would be life-altering. I didn't know if God would work miracles and heal her completely for His glory. 

But this I did know. God did not close all doors, put us in darkness, and then say This is a test from Me. God was good. Satan was evil. God gave life. Satan came to destroy. Blame had to be rightly attributed to the source of where it came from and when it came to horrible things like this, the devil was to be blamed, not God. 

I did not know what God would do but this I was confident of—God would show His goodness, and only His goodness. And it would not be in the hereafter, it would be now. In the land of the living. So I would keep that close in my heart as we waited, prayed, and trusted in His care. It was all we could do now. 

Let Freedom Ring

I just saw the tomatoes. They're 125,000 for a kilo, my husband informed me as we met mid-veggie aisle, him off to weigh the lemons as I handed him a bag with 4 cucumbers and another with 6 carrots. I saw some tomatoes for 30,000 in another area, I replied. My eyes cut over to the fruit section. Yellow apples piled high under a sign that read 75,000. I groaned inwardly. There would be no apples in our cart today. 

As we got to the checkout, I carefully checked each item as it went through. Two cartons of juice for a work event rang up at 26,500 instead of the 14,500 I'd thought they were. Another two also rang up wrong, this time the mango flavour was registering as Thyme Z 360. It made no sense. I paid the cashier and told my husband to wait while I ran back into the store to check the prices. They'd been wrong before, so I wanted to double-check. 

When I neared the shelves, my eyes scanned the lines and instantly I knew my mistake. I had read the price correctly but not the brand. 8 rows of shelves were fully stocked with Maccaw juices of different flavours while each sticker underneath displayed an Uno brand with corresponding price. I'd failed to double-check the cartons with the price checker and now I would either have to return the cartons or have less cash to buy other items for the work event. 

I turned and saw two young men in store shirts. They had been there earlier stocking the shelves when I'd grabbed the cartons of juice. You need to change all these stickers, I informed them. They all say Uno but this is Maccaw juice. They looked at me as if I had grown a third head. Sighing inwardly at the inability of the store employees to do anything useful, I grabbed 4 cartons of the cheaper juice and headed back to the checkout. 

After my purchase, I dug out the expensive cartons and hurried to the customer service. You need to change the prices on your shelves. I just wasted a lot of money because the prices were wrong, words spilled out, as the two ladies stared at me. I want to return these juices. They rang up the return, handed me my cash, and then stared at me again until finally a bell registered. Do you want your receipt back? I nodded and they circled something on the receipt, then handed it back to me. I looked at the receipt. They had circled the 4 juice cartons I had kept; not the ones I had returned. 

Infuriated at the ineptitude of everyone overall, I marched back over to my patiently waiting husband. Let's get out of here, I said. We went to the car, unloaded our purchases, and drove home. 

Two days later, I woke up to a perfect spring day. I pulled on my exercise tennies, downloaded the latest podcast of BBC Global News, grabbed my house key, and off I went. After an hour of vigorous walking, I washed my hair and prepared a tasty shanklish breakfast replete with fresh veggie tray and briny olives for a delightful meal on the balcony overlooking the Mediterranean Sea. It was a most marvelous start to the day.

Until a couple of hours later, I found myself in my room, door closed, recording an audio as tears emptied themselves into my eyes and ran down my cheeks. I can't do this anymore, I said, as I recounted the events of the past couple of days. I'd reached my breaking point and I. Just. Couldn't. Manage. Any. More. 

Except I had to. Because I didn't have a choice. 

It was more than apples, tomatoes or cartons of juice. It was the constant wearing down that had been going for the past 31 months with no end in sight. The anxiety that made me jump each time the power switched between city and generator, plunging us into darkness for a minute or more. The stench of burning garbage that mingled with raw sewage and factory waste so freely littering the air. Trying to make a budget that could keep up with the racing prices, only to throw it all to the wind the next month as gas, bread, and seeds jumped, yet again. Gas had passed 500,000 for 20 liters. It had been 23,000 before this whole fiasco had started.  

I lived by charts, calculating over and over how much we could spend on groceries this week, how much we could save for the next car repairs that would undoubtedly come along, and worrying whether we would have to shell out some of our hard-earned dollars because the exchange rate would have soared past hyperinflation into ultrahyperinflation, if there even was such a thing. The Telegram group I'd joined to keep informed on which latest catastrophe loomed predicted the rate would increase 100fold. I was caught in a tug-of-war between the reality of maddening insanity where nothing made sense and a group of calmly chanting Christians whose mantra Just trust God did nothing to calm my churning insides. 

A favourite saying of the conservatives goes, "God never leads His children otherwise than they would choose to be led, if they could see the end from the beginning and discern the glory of the purpose which they are fulfilling as co-workers with Him." (The Saving Providences of God, March 5) It's not true. I never chose the path my feet were set on before I could learn to walk. Packed up like one of the many suitcases our family trailed around the world, I moved hither and yon without a voice. Without a choice. 

I wanted to go to a mainstream university but we didn't have the money. I wanted to get married and settle down with a family when I was in my 20s. Have the whole white-picket fence, one car, a golden retriever, husband with a 9-to-5 job, two kids, and some semblance of security. Instead, here I was, in my 40s, still living someone else's life and following someone else's path. Not mine. 

Some days my eyes trace the contrails in the sky of a Boeing 787 Dreamliner, wistfully longing to be sitting inside it as it leaves this country far, far behind. Other days, I don't even look to the skies as I try to hold my mind together just long enough to get through another day. Accusing voices tell me to be thankful for what I have, after all, I'm not suffering like those who have to dig through garbage. The louder the voices, the deeper I retreat into myself. 

Until one day, I say out loud, I can't do this anymore. And in that moment I know. 

I don't have to. 

Don't Take Your Foot Off the Gas Pedal

I bowed my head in prayer, pleading earnestly with God to send away the devil's bacteria and fill the house with good angels. My husband had been coughing for the past 2 hours, an unfortunate hanging on of a Covid cough that had appeared more than a month after he'd gotten over Covid. Nothing seemed to help, not steaming, lozenges, little black licorices, honey, hot tea, cough syrup, antihistamine, or salt water gargles. We had tried them all. Nothing made a difference; the only thing that worked was when he slept. He could put himself to sleep in about 10 minutes and once his body had relaxed in sleep, the cough disappeared. By morning, he was right as rain only to repeat the process again the next evening. 

We couldn't figure out what triggered it. The first time, he had wheezed and rattled away in his sleep for nearly 2 hours before his breathing finally smoothed out. After that, though, the wheezing disappeared. He had a hard time breathing deeply but he could get enough oxygen to his lungs. Yet why the cough started, we couldn't understand. Sometimes, eating crackers and hummus set it off. Another time, it seemed to be the salted sunflower seeds. This evening we had gone for a walk and he'd been coughing as we walked but not every couple of minutes. 

Being on an extremely short leash with my anxiety levels soaring, I hadn't managed it very well when he'd started the cough. I would go to another room because I couldn't bear to hear him struggling to take a deep breath and having difficulty doing so. I waited to go to sleep until he was sleeping, because I couldn't relax until I knew he was okay again. I measured his oxygen levels with an oximeter, relieved that they stayed above the danger level, and quizzed him as to whether he had trouble getting enough oxygen into his lungs. 

I can breathe all right, he said, it's just my throat that feels tickly. 

As he started his evening seminar in the study, I began to pray in the living room. I thought of myself as the prayer warrior wife—ready to do battle with the devil for the next two hours. Suddenly, tears formed in the corner of my eyes. I wasn't a prayer warrior type of person. I was just barely holding myself together during these challenging times, let alone able to intercede in that way for another. Anxious that my inability to mentally focus on "storming the gates of heaven" for the next two hours meant my husband would not be able to teach, I was startled when a gentle thought came into my mind. 

I can take care of him. 

He can take care of him, I thought almost wistfully. I'd prayed that God would heal my husband, even if only for 2 hours, telling Him, If You want to, I know You can. Reminiscent of the parables where others had asked Jesus to heal them, I repeated the age old words. But then I realized, I was not the one who determined the final outcome. 

I was not the one with the foot on the gas pedal. 

So many times in life, particularly as Christians, we experience the pressure of feeling like we are the ones in control. If we don't pray hard enough, don't do enough outreach, or don't give enough of our monetary resources, then people will perish and the burden will be on us for failing to tell God what to do. As my husband had started speaking, I had felt like I was responsible to pray for two hours straight, repeating the same phrases over and over, almost like a mantra, in order to appease a God Who had the power to control my husband's impossible cough. 

Yet that wasn't it at all. If God was a loving God, compassionate and caring, then surely He cared not only about the people my husband was talking to but also my husband. He would make it possible for my husband to speak, either with a cough or despite the cough. What mattered was not that my husband was cured because of my Fireproof prayers, but that he had the ability to speak through the challenges. 

Several weeks ago, my husband had gone to apply for a visa. We'd prayed together before he left and, after going 5 times to the same office, his papers were finally accepted. Two days later, he was called to the consulate's office to meet with them. Again, we'd prayed together before he left. This time, however, the consulate informed him that, while his papers were in order, he was not able to grant a visa due to extenuating circumstances. 

Why did God answer the first prayer and not the second? Had I not prayed hard enough or long enough to change His mind? 

When we look in the Bible, there are many examples of prayer. Some are specific to time, such as Moses holding up his arms so the Israelites would win the battle. Or Jesus praying all night to connect with His Father. These were long for a reason. Yet Jesus Himself did not condone long prayers as He pointed out the long prayers of the religious leaders as an example of what not to do. The prayer Jesus taught His disciples was short but meaningful so length obviously was not a requisite to be heard by God. 

The purpose of prayer is to connect with God. Prayer changes us; not God. God is ultimately in control and His decisions are always what is best for us and for the universe, even when those who choose to go against Him seem to be winning. We think God is distant, absent even, and that we have to shout loudly so He will wake up and hear us when this is not Who God is at all. Isaiah prophesied long ago, saying, But have you not heard? It was I, the LORD, Who decided this long ago. Long ago I planned what I am now causing to happen," (Isaiah 37:26)

God loves us. God loves you. God loves me. God is love. If His very essence is love, then will He not take care of us in the midst of the stormy darts that the devil insists on hurling at us? 

Just as God decided long ago what would happen today, God also foresaw the challenges we would face. He knew my husband would be struggling with Covid-cough. He knew people would be waiting to listen to him share the good news. He knew that those who were listening would one day make life-changing decisions for Him. And in the midst of all of that, He cared for my husband so he could speak without obstacle, in God's power and strength moving forward. 

So I said my prayer and in doing so, I knew God heard and would answer. I took my foot off the gas pedal and realized the car was still whizzing down the highway of life. And in that moment, I realized. The car was never powered by gas, anyhow. It was powered by Love.