Jesus, I can hardly pray beyond that one word. I hurt all over. The pain is with me in the morning, nags me through the day, and climbs into bed with me at night. Even my sleep is restless and interminable because the throbbing just moves from one side to the other. It’s not even lunchtime and I’m exhausted already.
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 so there – 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; 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.