Holding Forks by Emily Owen

 

Photo by AbsolutVision on Unsplash

At my birthday dinner with family, my mum cut up my food for me.

I was not two, or three, or four….I was, um, considerably older than that.

Three days before my birthday, I underwent surgery which left my hand so weak I could not hold a fork. Actually, I could not hold anything. Not even a tissue.

Waking up from surgery, I said: ‘well that’s it then. I’ve lost my hand.’

I texted friends (with my good hand) to let them know how things had gone, aiming – fairly unsuccessfully, admittedly - to be a little more positive:

Surgeon says surgery went well, and strength will return, BUT RIGHT NOW I CAN’T USE MY HAND.

Strength is now returning (the surgeon was right!), but at the time ‘I CAN’T USE MY HAND’ summed it up. Despite the surgeon’s words, all I could focus on was what I couldn’t do.

I’d like to share a couple of replies I had to my text. Both are from friends with whom I’d had to cancel meals out (the surgery was unexpected); both times the meals were for my birthday.

One reply: ‘ok, we’ll go out when your strength returns. In the meantime, you could come over to me – I’ll even cut your food up for you!’

One reply: ‘ok, so you have a goal – get your hand working so you can use a fork, and then we’ll go out.’

Both replies acknowledged my current situation.

And both replies encouraged me to remember, despite the evidence, what I had lost sight of: The surgeon says strength will return.

Strength will return.

As Christians – writing and otherwise – we may often be acutely aware of our own lack of strength. I know I am. When I stare at a blank screen, or have a deadline looming, or feel ill-equipped to write on Bible passage, or….

Isaiah 40:31 encourages us to remember, perhaps despite the evidence, that strength will return:

But those who wait upon the LORD will renew their strength; they will mount up with wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not faint.

The surgery I had caused nerve damage, not muscular, and the only thing I could do to help my recovery was to wait. No amount of therapy was going to make those nerves recover before their time. No amount of trying to force things. I know this. As Mr Bennet says in Pride and Prejudice, I have been well acquainted with nerves for years.

However, the fact that I know it didn’t stop me trying to hurry the hoped-for recovery along. 

I tried to do things, and was each time frustratingly reminded of my lack of strength, but I kept trying anyway.

I tried to pick things up, but couldn’t.

I tried to open my birthday cards, but couldn’t.

I tried to play scales on the piano, but couldn’t.

Time passed until, eventually, one day I could.

I went out for dinner.

And I cut my food up myself.

I held that fork. 

For those of us who may be feeling that our writing is going nowhere, or who are staring at blank screens, or who find ourselves focussing on what we can’t do, may we find courage to wait for the Lord to renew our strength.

After all, sometimes waiting is the best way to move forward.