Let’s just say, I was so tired last night I googled signs of a stroke because I was having a terrible time pronouncing words correctly. I made Shah watch we me carefully. Of course, my arm started tingling, but I know me, stress makes my arms go numb. I’m not a hypochondriac and pretty much never think anything is wrong, but I’ve been to the hospital to see if I was having a heart attack because my normal response is numbness in the fingers and arms.
The surest sign that everything was OK was how normal and relaxed I felt after a hot bath.
This past week was hard, but either the coffee or the baby or the insanity kept me too _____ to notice.
I didn’t know where my mind should be. Is it funny that I checked the news to find out why I wasn’t getting a return call or disturbing that there is such rampant corruption in our prison system? Should I just relax and be home or should I mourn the loss of another officer? How can I write about nonsense when five officers were killed in the line of duty this week? Was the big human trafficking event a smooth success or did I just stay in a bubble and ignore all the competing factions?
Should I get up and clean and be productive or play with baby or just lay on the couch and become a vegetable?
I need help.
That was my only conclusion.
And my prayer for help, for patience, for love to give was answered as specifically as the basket of food dropped off for the starving family praying for their next meal.
Today, with its run, and it’s visit with the Afghan friends, and it’s joyful time with baby and husband was majical, or I should probably say miraculous. The miracle was not anything that happened, but instead, the state of my heart.
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