One of the creepier pieces of the puzzle beneath the headaches I don’t really have is a eyelid that doesn’t really close.
At least not all the way.
Well, at least that’s what my eye doctor says.
It’s handy at mealtime, where only a fool would pray with both eyes closed at my dinner table. When we say table grace, I keep that one creepy eye fixed on the spread. Because if I don’t watch the bowl to my right, I’m going to wind up on the short end of the mashed potato stick.
Meaning: I’m not so attentive during that prayer as I’d like to think.
In fact, I might be known to say Come, Lord Jesus, be our guest, with more than a little indifference.
I don’t always expect Him to show.
I dug for my phone under the army green flap of my back pocket. Shaking in the cold, my thumb skipped across the screen and missed the Answer button the first time.
Lyla! Are you walking in the ditch?
Knee-deep in sharp brown grass anxious to poke out of South Dakota snow, I looked up at the blacktop above me and had no answer but a sheepish “Umm. Yes.”
A former colleague had driven past moments before on that same asphalt ribbon and spotted me there in the rearview mirror. She wanted to make sure all was well. “Why are you walking in the ditch?” she asked.
Again, I had only one answer: Roadside therapy.
I asked Jesus to scootch up really close to her bed.
There wasn’t much else I knew to do.
While a friend hours away pushed back against a sometimes debilitating disease from a hospital bed, I reminded myself that tapping at His window isn’t just a matter of helpless hand-wringing. Asking Him to do it was a better thing than scootching up to her bed myself.
No matter how I would have liked to do that.