Sometimes the morning comes a bit too bright; the light feels harsh against eyes not yet ready for the seeing of another day. Mostly, I like the sun and the sight of a cloudless dawning, a brightening red forming the beginning. Sometimes, though, especially when sleep has come slow and restless, the night measured too closely, I prefer to wake to a gray day.
It seems that the expectations are a bit lower, not so much demanded of a day that has its beginning in a cloud-shrouded dawning. The light eases in bit-by-bit and it might be mid-morning or later before a glaring brightness finds its way around me. Sometimes, when the front is low and long, I might make it through the whole day without a disturbing light to ache my eyes and remind me that this is the season of migraines and vertigo.
It is a selfish thing, I know, to want the rest of the world to walk in sorrow and grayness just because of my private pains. Even more selfish once I admit that the headaches aren’t really all that bad; it’s just that they’ve become an almost daily thing over the last six weeks or so. It doesn’t take much reflection, though, to remember others I know who are dealing with cancer and loss, surgeries and darker fears, the nearness of death’s coming or passing. And if the storehouse of sympathy be a bit limited, it is better shared with them than me.
I can take my waking slow and my bending and raising even slower and make it through this day just fine. I will find good in this day and share its unfolding in good appreciation. I will pray for those in greater pain and deeper concern. I will remember the good my Lord has given me and draw upon his grace to face whatever petty trials might come my way.
But I think I might also finally schedule a call to the doctor. Sometimes we waste ourselves in struggles others can help bear. Even a virtue as fine and precious as determination is best tempered by wisdom and humility. Otherwise it passes into sheer stubbornness.