You know how it is. There’s been a few days of quiet, and a lovely little phrase has been blowing about in your mind, gathering wisps of ideas, and you think, “Yes! I’ll write a blog about that.” And you realise that you will have the house to yourself for the evening. Perfect writing time.
And then I accidentally let my finger dip in the bubbling oil from the fry-up. I had to phone The Dude upstairs to turn the hob off, because I had just rushed over to put my hand under the cold water tap. (An hour later I was still doing this intermittently.) And then Little Person was upset. Partly because The Dude was going out, partly because I had hurt my finger, partly because … well, it had been a long day.
So she cried after he left, and when I came to sit with her on the sofa, and when it was time to bath, and when it was time to get in bed. And I phoned my mum in the middle of all of this, because I did not know how to stop the pain in my finger, and I did not know if I could cope with a sore finger and a sobbing child all at the same time. My mum helped. She listened, and suggested petroleum jelly (“it’s what we would do in Africa.” The thought had crossed my mind). I slathered it on, and wrapped up the finger in cottonwool, and everything was manageable for 15 minutes. And then the pain became unbearable again.
So I unwrapped the cottonwool, rinsed under cold water (again), put on more goo, and a new batch of cottonwool – doubled-up this time. And fifteen minutes later realised that the fifteen minute time limit would keep on happening, unless I found a different way to handle things. I realised I had throbbing pain and achey contact with cottonwool pain, and some kinds of pressure made things better, and some made things worse. And I determined that I wasn’t repeating the cycle of taking the cottonwool off every 15 minutes. Because, well, I had a Little Person to sort out, and she was still periodically crying.
So now I type this, because the pain in my figure wobbles to the forefront of my mind from time to time, but I’m not about to let that stop me. And through her tears tonight, The Little Person has learnt a little something about love. Love doesn’t mean that the person never leaves. Love means you don’t have to be afraid that the person won’t come back. Perfect love casts out all fear.
And somewhere between the pain in my finger and the pain in my Little Person’s heart, I may be learning another lesson too. About pushing through, and knowing that I will see love and healing on the other side.
Which may not be as cool as what I was going to write, but I don’t mind. Sometimes it doesn’t have to be.