It's almost a week into the new year. My fever from COVID was gone Sunday, and I even ventured a trek outside Monday, but it seems last week's experience got me a little less quick to say my health is completely OK now.
Last week? Well, I felt really sick Monday when COVID hit (I got it from my son, who brought it home from the workplace), but my temp seemed to come down Tuesday so I thought "I was all better" and let my appetite have free revenge. But it wasn't over. Fever raged back Wednesday, and I found my brain pulsating cement again for a while. And despite my frenzied feeding Tuesday, my weight dropped 2 kilos. When the fever finally broke, "restless leg syndrome" came, and for those of you who know, this hits me in not just the legs but also my arms and hands.
Make no bones about it. I asked dear friends as well as my sisters to petition our Father for me, and I happily, gratefully let myself get hours of incredible, uninterrupted rest as only He can give in answer to those prayers. But...
When He chose to wake me up after several hours with a gnawing pressure in the limbs, I was not going to say, "Hey God, You didn't do Your job right! This is still bothering me! Take away the discomfort and let me sleep more--so I can praise You and say, 'God answers prayer!' "
No--I just decided He felt I'd gotten enough rest. So I stopped fighting the "restless syndrome", got out of bed and washed up, dressed (yes, albeit this was the middle of the night) and began recording what a loving Father had just shown me that night.
Sometimes this seemed to be the best way to wake up and start the new day--but then I think the very demons who tried to keep me awake were the same ones trying to get me to fall asleep because they didn't want me writing anymore.
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